


Norbury

by Tor_Raptor



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Ending, Angst, Anniversary, Baker Street, Birthday, Confessions, Deathfic, Delusions, Depression, Episode Fix-It: s04e01 The Six Thatchers, Episode: s04e01 The Six Thatchers, Eventual Happy Ending, Family, Funeral, Gen, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Imaginary Friends, John is a Bit Not Good, John's gun, Mycroft does have a heart, Parenthood, Secrets, Sentiment, Sherlock's Violin, Suicidal Thoughts, The skull - Freeform, Therapy, Vivian Norbury - Freeform, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-08-28 08:59:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 30
Words: 96,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16720311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tor_Raptor/pseuds/Tor_Raptor
Summary: Vivian Norbury shot. What if Mary hadn't jumped?





	1. Cataclysm

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve had lots of little ‘what-if’ prompts floating around in my head lately, but this one is definitely the most persistent: What if Mary hadn’t taken the bullet meant for Sherlock? Also, it looked like she moved after the shot was fired, which is kinda impossible, but that’s not as important. Throughout season 4, we got to see John’s reaction to losing his wife and how it affected his relationship with Sherlock; this story is the other way around. I must warn you it’s a real heart-wrencher, but if you’re reading this note you’ve already seen the summary/warnings and decided it was worth checking out. Anyways, enjoy!

John didn't see it happen. He heard the gunshot as he ran through the aquarium. Glass fish tanks took up most of the wall space, and he didn't hear anything shatter… so odds were the bullet didn't hit the wall. He tried not to think about what it could have hit as he rounded the corner and burst into the room. Mycroft bustled past him with his phone to his ear, a look of barely-restrained panic on his face. John had never seen Mycroft panic. There was only one thing—one person—that ever elicited any sort of emotion from the British government.

John scanned the room, but anything he may have observed about the situation was immediately deleted when he saw where the bullet ended up. Back in Afghanistan, he'd been able to remain level-headed and calm no matter the degree of crisis. Two men both shot and bleeding out on the sandy desert floor? No problem. An explosion rendered five soldiers clinging to life? Captain Watson could handle it. But Sherlock Holmes takes one bullet and all of John's medical knowledge abandons him. This was now the second time he'd stumbled into a room to find his best friend bleeding out on the floor. However, last time he'd had only a concussed Charles Augustus Magnussen for company; now he had a room full of spectators to watch him fall to pieces.

Mary looked up at him from where she crouched by Sherlock's side, both hands pressed firmly against the wound in an attempt to staunch the blood flow. His wife, who'd been responsible for this last time around, now silently called him to help, to do something, to fix this. But as John got closer and knelt down beside Mary, he knew there would be no fixing this. The damage was catastrophic, blood pouring from Sherlock's chest at an alarming rate despite Mary's efforts.

"Jesus, no," John heard himself whisper. At the sound of John's voice, Sherlock looked up at him, eyes glazed with pain.

"John," he mumbled.

"Shhhh, you're okay." Mere seconds ago, John had been drowning in panic, but somehow, hearing Sherlock call out to him chased the sensation away, leaving behind an ethereal calmness for which John was immensely grateful. The pain could wait until later, Sherlock needed him now. Wordlessly, he and Mary switched places. "You're okay. Remember last time? They fixed you up and you ended up fleeing from hospital."

Sherlock clenched his eyes shut and shook his head back and forth. "Not like last time." John knew he was right. He didn't want him to be right—he desperately wanted him to be wrong—but of course Sherlock was right. No ambulance could get here fast enough, even if they'd called minutes before the shot had been fired. John could feel Sherlock's very life force pulsing out from the hole ripped in his chest.

"Okay," was all John could muster. "Okay."

"John?" Sherlock weak voice was barely audible over the sound of John's own heartbeat reverberating inside his head. "Not Bart's," he coughed, and a trickle of blood spilled out of the corner of his mouth. "Not Molly."

Oh God. In his dying moments, Sherlock was thinking about poor Molly Hooper. His breaths were numbered, and he used one to tell John not to let his dead body be deposited at their friend's workplace. He didn't want her to see him when it was all over. When his life was over.

"Okay," John assured. "Not Bart's. God, you're a saint, you know that?" At this point, Sherlock was spluttering, barely able to get air into his failing lungs. John bit into his own lip hard enough to draw blood. For the second time in his life, he had a front row seat to his best friend's death. He remembered the feeling of helplessness that had overcome him upon seeing Sherlock broken and bloodied on the pavement all those years ago. He'd been too late to stop Sherlock from jumping, and he was too late yet again. If he'd gotten here just a little bit sooner, he could've stopped this. But there would be no miracle return this time around. There was no opportunity for tricks, no switching bodies. This was real. And it was ripping John apart.

"Sherlock, you made a vow," John croaked, remembering what he'd been promised at his wedding. "You said… you said you'd always be there… whatever happens." In the middle of that sentence, the tears came. John tried to hold himself together, but there was no stopping the flood.

"You'll still… have Mary," Sherlock reminded him. For an instant, John looked at the woman he'd made his wife. Yes, he would still have Mary. But she wasn't enough. She would never be enough. John didn't want to settle down into family life with his wife and daughter. He wanted to chase criminals around London, listen to marvelous deductions, and find strange specimens in the fridge. He wanted Sherlock.

"But I want you too," John whined. He honestly didn't care if he sounded childish. He was living his worst nightmare, and he was bloody terrified.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock sighed. John looked into those beautiful blue-green eyes and saw true remorse. Rarely did Sherlock apologize for anything, and knowing he regretted this brought fresh tears to John's eyes.

"Don't apologize. It's not your fault." John carded his free hand through Sherlock's curls, and memorized the pattern of multi-colored flecks that adorned his irises. Soon those eyes would close, never to open again—John halted that thought process before it went too far. Sherlock turned his gaze to Mary and instructed:

"Look after him."

"I will," she assured, squeezing Sherlock's left hand before letting him return his attention to John.

"John." Sherlock could barely speak, and John was forced to lean closer just to hear his whispered words. "Take care of Rosie." John nodded, but his daughter was the last thing on his mind when Sherlock was literally dying. She would be fine. She would grow up never knowing her godfather, but she would be fine. John, on the other hand, could feel his sanity trickling away from him faster than Sherlock's blood through his fingers.

Sherlock, infinitely observant despite the trauma, clearly saw John's distress. "You'll be okay," he assured. He took John's free hand, the one that wasn't still futilely plugging the hole in his chest, in his and weakly squeezed it.

"No I bloody won't!" John cried, clinging to Sherlock's hand as if his grip alone could keep the detective tethered to life. He felt Sherlock's thumb circle the back of his hand. Somewhere in his mind it occurred to him that he should be the one comforting in a situation like this, not the one needing to be consoled. But the majority of him was focused on the overwhelming rush of emotions: fear, regret, anger, and sorrow.

"John, promise me." If possible, Sherlock's voice was even weaker, the faintest whisper of words in the appalling silence of the aquarium around them.

"Promise what?" In that moment, John would do anything Sherlock asked. He'd leap out of a plane without a parachute, or dash in front of a speeding train. He'd hurl himself off the roof if Sherlock asked him to. Any of those things would get him killed, but at least he wouldn't have to live with the gaping hole in his side that Sherlock's absence created. He'd done it once for two years, and it had nearly driven him to madness.

"Promise you'll… move on. Live your life." Oh God, anything but that. John Watson could've done anything in the world but that. When Sherlock died the first time, his world came crashing down around him. He'd just finished building it back up even greater than before, and now it would be razed to the ground yet again. But he couldn't deny Sherlock this. He'd asked John to promise, so he would try his absolute best despite the despair eating him up from inside.

"I promise," John said, holding Sherlock's right hand to his chest. He met Sherlock's gaze one last time before his eyes fluttered shut. Those bright blue eyes that saw infinitely more than John could ever hope to observe closed for the last time. John subconsciously shifted his grip to feel Sherlock's radial pulse. The same hand John had floundered for last time, searching for any hint of life despite knowing the truth. The same hand that had told John firmly that its owner was dead, even when he wasn't. He detected the faintest beats of Sherlock's heart—hopelessly weak and erratic, but there. He closed his eyes and counted each and every one, holding his breath in between.

One.

Two.

Three. Four.

Five.

Six. Seven.

Eight. Nine.

Ten.

Eleven.

Nothing. John's eyes snapped open, and he adjusted his grip in hopes of finding it again, but there was nothing to find. Sherlock's heart no longer beat within his chest. Oxygen no longer journeyed to that magnificent brain. He was gone. Eleven beats. That's all he'd had left to give. Just to be sure, John searched Sherlock's armpit for the little ball that people sometimes used to cut off the pulse. Finding nothing, he checked his findings again at Sherlock's neck. Nothing. He watched his chest, waiting for another rise to indicate he'd taken a breath. Stillness. John heard a pained, animalistic whimper. It took him a while to register that the sound had come from his own throat.

Next thing he knew, he was seated next to Sherlock with his arms wrapped around his already cooling corpse, the detective's head tucked in to rest on John's shoulder. If it weren't for the massive red stain on Sherlock's shirtfront and his ethereal stillness, he could've been napping, with John for a pillow. He knew it was mad, knew that this degree of attachment was disconcerting, but he didn't care. He breathed in and out slowly, his nose still able to detect the smell of Sherlock beneath the salty tang of blood. Rosin and shampoo with the faintest hint of the musk John associated with 221B Baker Street. He smelled like home.

For a moment, he imagined they were home, crashed on the couch after a particularly exhausting case. They'd done it before, fallen asleep practically on top of each other because they were both too tired to move another inch or to care about the implications. If he listened closely, he could almost hear the sound of Sherlock's gentle snoring. John was content to remain there forever, but he knew he wouldn't be allowed. Someone would come and take Sherlock—Sherlock's body—away from him. Then he'd really be gone forever.

John nestled even closer, clenching his eyes shut. If he opened them, he'd see everyone in the room staring at him with a mixture of pity and fear. He'd see the wound and the blood that reminded him that they weren't safe in Baker Street, they were slouched against the wall of an aquarium with his ex-assassin wife and a madwoman with a gun. A gun that had killed Sherlock.

Was it really the gun that had killed him? Or the bullet? Or Vivian Norbury herself? All were crucial parts of the murder, but if he had to pin the blame on one, which would it be? The bullet—the projectile—that flew at mesmerizing speed and buried itself deep in Sherlock's chest, opening up countless vital blood vessels. The gun that contained that bullet and provided the power to launch it at such speed. The woman whose twisted sense of purpose led her to sabotage a coup, and whose need for the last word made her fire on an innocent man. Or Mary, whose secret past life brought John and Sherlock into this insane web. If it weren't for Mary, they wouldn't be here. But the same would be true if it weren't for John falling for and marrying her. He'd been vulnerable when he met her, still reeling from Sherlock's first death. If he hadn't been such a hopeless romantic, if he'd somehow seen her for what she really was, they wouldn't be in this mess. Without a doubt, it was his weakness that inevitably led to this. Sherlock was dead because John couldn't bear to be alone in the wake of his best friend's suicide. So Sherlock was dead because Sherlock was dead—how strange.

"I've really lost my mind this time," John muttered. "Sherlock, why aren't you calling me an idiot?" He opened his eyes and glanced over at his friend. "Right, 'cuz you're dead," he chuckled. Then he realized he was laughing at his friend's demise, and laughter instantly morphed into sobbing. He buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder and wept. He wept for hours, or maybe it was only seconds. Time simply didn't matter when Sherlock wasn't around to lose track of it.

John was too absorbed in the moment to notice the arrival of the paramedics. He sensed the extra pairs of eyes trained on him, but he didn't react. Nothing mattered right now except him and Sherlock. But he was forced out of his reverie by Mary whispering his name insistently. Reluctantly, he lifted his head from the fabric of Sherlock's coat. He glanced at the medics, noting the combination of puzzlement and concern etched on their faces. He wanted to scream at them for being too late, for failing to save Sherlock. They were summoned to save a life, but they arrived instead to cart away a corpse.

But John had to admit it wasn't their fault. Countless variables factored into their travel time, and even an ambulance with sirens blaring could only drive so fast. Even so, John was still angry with them because they would soon take Sherlock away from him.

"John, you need to let go," Mary's gentle voice pierced through the fog of John's anguish. He knew she was right, but he didn't want to let go. Last time he let go, they carted Sherlock off and he disappeared for two years. If he let go this time, he'd disappear forever.

"No," he told Mary, hugging Sherlock closer. Somewhere deep down, he knew he was being irrational, that he couldn't sit here forever and pretend none of this ever happened. But that part of him was silenced by the part still in denial.

"John." Mary sounded worried now. "You have to let him go."

"No." Hot tears rolled down his cheeks, but the sensation barely registered with the screaming agony in his heart. He couldn't let go, neither physically nor emotionally. Twenty years from now, thirty years from now, he would still cling to Sherlock.

"John." Mary crept closer and sat on John's other side. He was reminded of something Sherlock said at their wedding: "Today you sit between the woman you've made your wife and the man you have saved." Well, now he sat between his wife and the man he failed to save. Mary rested a hand on John's thigh and tried to coax him into looking at her. "John," she repeated. He looked into her eyes and saw fear; she was afraid of his behavior and what it revealed about his state of mind. She'd seen him grieve for Sherlock before, and she'd helped him through it. But John and Mary hadn't met until a few months after, when the wound had scarred over. She'd never seen him as raw and broken as he was now. He'd never felt as raw and broken as he did now.

Last time had been awful—the worst day of his life—but this was definitely worse. The first time, Sherlock ended his own life. John was devastated, but if Sherlock truly didn't want to live in this world, he shouldn't have to. He chose to die. This time, life was brutally ripped away from him. He didn't want to die. Though he didn't often show it, John knew Sherlock was happy. He'd been rescued from exile and given a second chance. He was godfather to John's daughter. He was the most famous detective in the world. Now that title would go to someone else, and Sherlock Holmes would go down in history.

He sighed in defeat and relinquished his grip on Sherlock. He hugged his knees to his chest and put his head down, not daring to watch. He heard the small scuffle and knew what was happening, but he refused to acknowledge it. But suddenly, his left side was cold and only Mary remained beside him. Sitting next to his loving wife, John Watson was lonely.

"Goodbye John." He heard it as clearly as he had over the phone years ago. Sherlock's voice resonated inside his head, bouncing off the walls of his skull. But instead of watching Sherlock plummet four stories, he himself was plunged into freefall. He saw snippets of memories flash before his eyes: meeting Sherlock for the first time, the pool incident, the Woman, the hallucinogen-fueled meltdown in Dartmoor, the Fall, their less-than-happy reunion, Sherlock teaching him to dance before the wedding, breaking into Magnussen's office, their conversation on the tarmac before the almost-exile, the birth of his daughter. Every important event in John's life included Sherlock. How was he supposed to continue living if he was gone?


	2. Aftershock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I call this the Lady Macbeth chapter because of John's actions towards the beginning of it. Anyone familiar with Macbeth will know what I'm talking about-anyone who's not, it doesn't matter at all, the story will still make sense. But I may or may not have inserted a quote from the play in there somewhere for anyone who likes looking for that sort of thing.

John's memories of the immediate aftermath were rather hazy. Once they took Sherlock away, he completely tuned out. When he finally came to and registered his surroundings, it was mid-morning the next day and he was at home with Mary and Rosie. He didn't know if he actually slept or spent the night in a grief-induced coma.

He sat up and perched on the side of the bed. He stared down at his hands, wondering who had washed them. His right hand had been almost completely coated in blood; now it was clean. He looked more closely, and found dried blood stuck beneath his fingernails. Whoever cleaned him up hadn't had the time or energy to scrub it all away. John stared intently for a while longer, stared at this substance which belonged inside Sherlock that had somehow burrowed deeply under John's nails. In a way, it was symbolic of the way Sherlock always managed to get under his skin.

But the longer he stared, the more he was reminded of Sherlock's dramatic exit from this world. Instantaneously, he was overcome with disgust, and he rushed to the bathroom to rid himself of this last vestige of Vivian Norbury's fatal destruction. He scrubbed frantically, but his efforts yielded nothing. The blood stubbornly clung to his skin. Will these hands never be clean? When another round of washing failed to lift it, he grabbed a pair of clippers and cut his nails shorter for better access to the area beneath them.

More soap, more scrubbing, more rinsing; it should've been more than enough. John dried his hands and scrutinized his work. Maybe it was his imagination, but he still saw little red crescents of blood. So he trimmed his nails again, right down to the nub, and returned to scrubbing vigorously. He kept going until he realized the water pouring down the drain was tinged with pink.

He was supposed to be getting rid of the blood, but somehow there was more of it. How was this possible? Was this Sherlock bleeding vicariously through these little remnants on John's fingertips? Would he have to stand here until every drop of blood that had spilled on that aquarium floor flowed through him and into the sink? In some twisted way, it felt right. So he kept scrubbing and watched, transfixed, as the stream continued. Water mixed with soap mixed with blood became a frothy pink concoction that circled the drain before sliding away. John was so mesmerized that he didn't notice Mary come in behind him.

"John! What are you doing?!" she cried. She rushed over and snatched his left hand away so he couldn't scrub anymore. His right hand remained over the sink, blood dripping from his fingertips. Mary shut off the water, and the last of the mixture drained away. With the sink empty, the fresh drops of blood stood out starkly against the white porcelain. John looked at Mary, staring wide-eyed and panicked at him, then back to his hand. It finally registered that the new blood was his own; he'd literally ripped the skin off his fingertips.

"John, please tell me what you were trying to do," Mary begged. John fumbled over his words, trying to remember why he'd started washing his hands in the first place.

"There was… blood… stuck under my nails," he managed. He surprised himself by actually forming a coherent sentence, even if his delivery was stilted. Mary frowned, looking between John, the sink, and the nail clippers on the counter. John predicted what she would ask next, and said, "It wouldn't come off. So I tried harder." It was now John realized that his hand should be hurting what with the degree of damage he'd done, but he didn't feel a thing.

Mary sighed and turned around to fetch their first aid kit. She brought John into the kitchen and sat him down at the table. As she dressed his wounds, John could almost hear the gears turning in her brain. She was piecing together exactly what he'd done to himself and speculating why.

"You're angry with me," John observed, watching absent-mindedly as she manipulated his hand. Still, he felt no pain.

"No, I'm not angry," Mary countered. "I'm concerned. I thought I cleaned everything off earlier when I brought you home. I double-checked both of your hands."

"It was stuck under my nails. It was hard to get at."

"But that still doesn't explain why you scrubbed them raw and cut your nails so dangerously short."

"It still wouldn't come off," John defended. Mary stopped working for a second and looked up at John's face. She knew, and John was beginning to understand, that what he'd done was crazy. It bordered on self mutilation.

"John, if this is your outlet, you and I are going to have to talk. This is unacceptable."

"I didn't even realize what I did. I was just sort of mindlessly scrubbing." He knew how insane that sounded as the statement left his mouth. He just admitted to being totally oblivious to a serious self-inflicted injury. It was either a lie to disguise a desire to self harm, or an admittance that he was so absorbed in his grief that he no longer understood the signals sent by his nerves. The latter was actually true: he didn't feel the pain in his fingers, he wasn't hungry, and he wasn't even tired. He was numb.

"Does it hurt?" Mary asked. An interesting question. Of course, she was asking about his hand; that was the only logical antecedent to the 'it' in question. But it could easily be interpreted differently. Does his hand hurt? Does the particular way she dressed it hurt? Does his shoulder hurt? Does dying hurt? Does losing your best friend—watching the life leave him before your very eyes while sitting there knowing there's nothing you can do—does that hurt?

God, yes.

It hurt so much that John wanted to scream, cry, pass out, and die. In that order. He'd try anything that promised to alleviate his agony by even the smallest of degrees. But most of those options were out of the question since Rosie was sleeping soundly somewhere in the flat and John hated to wake her. So instead, he answered the question Mary had actually asked, does his hand hurt:

"No. I can't feel a thing." Mary pursed her lips and looked at him incredulously. It was crazy, absolutely insane, but he really couldn't feel it. All he felt was a mind-numbing emptiness. The sensation was familiar, but made even worse by the fact that he wasn't actually alone. Last time, he'd been able to do whatever he needed to ease the pain. He lost count of how many nights he spent in a drunken stupor. But Mary and Rosie's presence meant he couldn't simply let himself go. Now he was responsible for more than just Sherlock. He had to hold himself together despite the gaping hole in his side.

It had only been hours, but he missed his best friend desperately. He'd been away from Sherlock for longer spans than this many times before, but he always knew that the detective was either tucked up at home or out on a case somewhere. There was an invisible string connecting the two of them; John could usually sense when Sherlock was in danger, and vice versa. John found and shot the cabbie with the pills on pure intuition after knowing Sherlock for all of a few days. Sherlock commandeered a bloody motorcycle and pulled him from that bonfire even after John repeatedly knocked him around. Now, that string hung limp.

John didn't even know where Sherlock was. Did he want to know? Yes, he did. Mary probably knew, so John asked, "Where is he?"

"Hmm?" she looked up from packing up the first aid kit.

"Where. Is. He?" John repeated, enunciating each word. It sounded vaguely like a threat, even though that wasn't his intention.

"Not Bart's," Mary assured. "Mycroft's taking care of him." John was relieved to hear that Molly wouldn't be subjected to another surprise visit from Sherlock. But if she didn't find out like that, who would tell her? And who would tell Mrs. Hudson? God, she was probably worried sick. John wondered for a moment if there was any way he could avoid having to retell the story, but he didn't trust anyone else with Mrs. Hudson. Molly could bear to hear it from someone else, but their landlady couldn't. She'd shatter for the second time, learning that the man she treated like a son was dead for real. No resurrections this time.

"Can I see him?" he didn't consciously form the question. He didn't even intend to say it out loud, but it slipped out. Was that really something he wanted? It must be, if he'd subconsciously blurted it out.

"John, I don't think that's a good idea," Mary said. She was right, John knew that, but a part of him, the part that still didn't believe it, wanted to argue. Denial was the first stage of grief, wasn't it? Was he in denial? He'd seen Sherlock bleed out, had felt his pulse cease to exist, but he still half-expected him to burst into the room and demand John follow him along on a case. On a conscious level, he knew that would never happen again, that he'd seen the last of the great detective, but a part of him refused to submit to that logic.

John shook his head, agreeing with Mary. There's no telling what he would do if confronted with Sherlock's corpse. She'd said Mycroft was taking care of him. John trusted Mycroft to handle things responsibly, and to do as their family wished. But the way Mary said, "he's taking care of him," made it sound like Sherlock was under the weather and Mycroft was making him soup or something. In actuality, the elder Holmes was dealing with things like burial plot arrangement and casket selection. John wondered if they would just dig up the empty coffin at Sherlock's old gravestone and replace it with a new, occupied one. Would they leave the headstone and allow the dates to be wrong? Sherlock would find that amusing. But knowing Mycroft, they'd definitely replace it.

Thinking of Mycroft, John wondered how the elder Holmes was dealing with this tragedy. Unlike John, this was his first time. Sherlock's previous death had been orchestrated by the British government himself, an elaborate plot to smuggle him out of England to dismantle Moriarty's network. He'd never felt what it was like to lose Sherlock. As often as they argued, John knew the brothers loved each other dearly. He'd seen the look of panic on Mycroft's face as he fled the room at the aquarium, calling the ambulance he knew would arrive too late. He was probably devastated. He spent his whole life protecting his little brother. John remembered when he tried to recruit John to spy on Sherlock and relay him information. He claimed to be Sherlock's archenemy. Looking back, John found that rather ironic. They may pretend to hate each other, but anybody with an ounce of sense could see past the snarky comments to the unbreakable fraternal loyalty beneath.

Mycroft had just lost the only brother he'd ever had. John had never had the best relationship with Harry. He'd already lost her to the bottle on multiple occasions, but how would he feel if she actually died? He knew it wouldn't compare to this agony. Harry might be family, but she could never mean as much to him as Sherlock did. Was that a testament to his poor relationship with his sister, or to the strength of his bond with Sherlock? Maybe both.

John didn't know Sherlock's brother all that well, he'd only ever seen the front he presented to everyone. Apparently there was another side to him, one that only Sherlock and their parents had ever seen. John wondered how he would grieve. Would he pretend to have gone through all five stages in a matter of days, jumping to acceptance far sooner than was actually feasible? Would he bury himself in his work, ignoring the fact that his little brother no longer interrupted him with his antics? Sherlock had always poked fun at him for dieting; would he turn to food as a stress reliever? Or would the memory of Sherlock's teasing turn him away from it?

John had a hard time imagining Mycroft Holmes upset about anything. He always appeared so stoic and unreachable. "Caring is not an advantage," was his philosophy. Was he right? If nobody cared, nobody would ever suffer like this. Nobody would ever lose a loved one, because there would be no loved ones. Just people you interacted with and people you didn't. But was avoiding inevitable grief worth pushing everyone away? Would John trade his life with Sherlock if it meant he didn't have to feel this anguish? Was it preferable to never know than to know and lose?

No. It definitely wasn't. If he'd never met Sherlock, John would still be the depressed war invalid with a psychosomatic limp. In all honesty, if he hadn't run into Mike Stamford that fateful day, if he hadn't been introduced to the man who would change his life, he would've killed himself eventually. Life had been progressing in a decidedly negative direction. Sherlock had grabbed him by the sleeve and made him run the other way.

The sound of Rosie crying stopped his mind's meandering thoughts in their tracks. Mary stood up to go check on her, but John stopped her. He needed to do something normal, something other than thinking about the last twenty four hours. He walked into the room and picked up the crying infant, relishing in the routine he'd done so many times before. Despite the turmoil, Rosie's needs remained constant.

Taking care of his daughter took Sherlock off of John's mind, but the second he realized he wasn't thinking about Sherlock, John began to think about Sherlock. He felt like he wasn't allowed to think about anything else, and wouldn't be for a long time. How long was long enough? How long was too long? Where was the threshold? There had to be a line that no one was allowed to cross. Maybe John had to set these boundaries for himself.

As he rocked his daughter to sooth her back into a nap, he mentally wrote a list of things that would signal he needed help. He didn't necessarily want to go back to therapy, but if things reached critical, he wouldn't hesitate. He was loath to admit it, but talking about these things had helped the last time around. He would seek help if he found his emotions interfering in his ability to be a father. He didn't want Rosie to be raised by a man who didn't have his own faculties under control. This was a crucial stage in her development, and being exposed to his depression could affect her dramatically. She might be without a godfather; she couldn't afford to lose her dad too.

He also vowed not to grow a mustache this time. Both Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson were right; it aged him. He'd done it because he couldn't bear to look at himself in the mirror and recognize the man who was always by Sherlock's side. His own face looked out of place without Sherlock's beside it. Maybe it still would, but he'd have to get used to it. Even if he tried to grow it back, Mary would put a stop to it. When Rosie quieted down and fell asleep, he gently set her down and returned to the kitchen.

John knew this would be the worst part of the whole ordeal, but it had to be done. He didn't trust anyone else to be able to handle the inevitable breakdown. He had to break the news to Mrs. Hudson himself. There was no other way.

"I have to go to Baker Street," he told Mary abruptly. It had barely been twenty four hours since the aquarium, and John kept thinking about poor Mrs. Hudson. She was still blissfully unaware of what had transpired. But she would have to find out eventually; better sooner than later.

"Are you sure?" Mary asked. She knew how much he'd struggled with returning there after Sherlock's first death.

"Not upstairs. Just to see Mrs. Hudson. I've got to let her know."

"Okay." Mary understood why he needed to do it himself, and she didn't pry. She might ask questions after he returned, but John didn't need to think about that right now. One thing at a time.

He'd gone to Baker Street countless times before. It had been his home for a long time. This time felt different. It reminded him of the time he visited to tell their landlady that he was getting engaged to Mary. He hadn't seen her in nearly two years, yet he just barged in and dropped that news on her. Little did he know, his best friend would return to him that evening and throw a wrench in his plans. In retrospect, he should have found it suspicious that she hadn't rented the flat out to someone else. She couldn't afford for it to go empty for two years, but someone (Mycroft Holmes) had compensated her. A small part of John hoped the same would happen this time. He didn't want 221B to become the home of any old ordinary person.

The familiar red awning of Speedy's welcomed him. He stood on the sidewalk for a long time just staring at the door before him. He looked up at the windows, half-expecting to see the lanky detective in his dressing gown playing the violin while watching the activity on the street. But of course, they were empty.

Steeling himself, John approached the front door and knocked. He had a key, but he didn't want to use it this time. He was here for Mrs. Hudson, not for himself. A few moments later, the door opened and John found himself face-to-face with their landlady. He almost broke down right then and there, but managed to hold himself together.

"Oh John, I wasn't expecting to see you," Mrs. Hudson said. "Have you seen Sherlock? He went out saying something about a case and never came back."

"Mrs. Hudson, I think we should sit down," John stated, trying to keep his voice as flat as possible. He wanted to fall into her arms and cry like he had to his mother when he was a little boy, but that would only upset her more. She stepped back and allowed him inside, taking him into her quaint kitchen on the first floor. She could tell something was up by John's previous statement. He wondered if she knew, if she could deduce what had occurred.

"What's happened, John? Is Sherlock alright?"

"No," John choked. Mrs. Hudson was alarmingly keen; she was on the right track and so close to the correct conclusion. John wondered if it would be better if he just let her figure it out instead of blurting out the news. "He got shot." It wasn't the whole truth, but it was all John could bring himself to say at the moment.

"Again? Poor boy," she clucked. "Hopefully he won't go running off this time. Goodness, I'll never forget what he looked like stumbling in here after you and Mary. And I still haven't any morphine in the flat."

John inhaled a lungful of air, trying to keep his composure. He felt woozy, like he was about to fall out of the chair. He placed his hands on the table to steady himself. "Come on, you've done this before," he told himself.

"What did you do to your hand?" Mrs. Hudson questioned. John glanced down at Mary's handiwork. He'd almost forgotten about the damage he'd done in the bathroom earlier that day. Any pain was completely forgotten in the shadow of the daunting task ahead of him.

"Just a scrape," John insisted, placing his right hand in his lap to hide it from view. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead floundered like a fish out of water. The words would not come.

"John, are you alright?"

God, why was this so hard? He couldn't force his mouth to utter three simple words: Sherlock is dead. He shouldn't have told her he'd been shot. That's what he said last time, when he'd been alive. Of course Mrs. Hudson would assume the same this time. He opened and closed his mouth several more time, but no sound would come.

"John?" Mrs. Hudson sounded really worried now. He hadn't been like this after the Fall. He'd told her, then let her cry into his shoulder. Why couldn't he just do it? John bit his lip, and forced himself to speak.

"He's dead."


	3. Outreach

"He's dead."

That statement hung in the air like heavy fog. Mrs. Hudson looked like she didn't believe it. She'd just gotten him back, only to lose him again. Sherlock was like a son to her; she didn't deserve this kind of stress. Yet here she was, receiving this news for the second time in her life.

"Oh John, I'm so sorry." Mrs. Hudson stood up and strode over to John. He couldn't handle it anymore; he stood and threw himself into her waiting arms. The two of them just stood there and cried for what seemed like ages. Eventually, John's tear reservoirs ran dry, and he listened to Mrs. Hudson continue to sob into his shoulder. She'd been there for him last time, so he made sure to stay as long as she needed him. A couple minutes later, she composed herself enough to release John.

"How?" she asked, wiping her eyes.

"Bullet to the chest," John stated. "I didn't see it happen, but I was there for the aftermath. I got to say goodbye—and not over the phone." It was then he realized how fortunate it was that he'd gotten there when he did. Any later and he would've missed the most important moment of his life. How much worse would things be if he hadn't even gotten to speak to him one last time? So many things would be left unsaid, so many questions unanswered. There were still plenty of both, but not as many as there would've been if John had been late.

Another consoling thought: that's how Sherlock always expected to go. Shot down by some criminal he spent days or weeks hunting down. It's how he wanted to die. Because of him, Vivian Norbury would be put behind bars, where she belonged. John only hoped the bullet wound hadn't been too painful for Sherlock in his last moments.

"Is there anything I can do?" Mrs. Hudson inquired, looking at John with pity. She'd just practically lost a son, and she was asking if there was something she could do? What did John ever do to deserve a woman like this in his life?

"No, Mrs. Hudson. We'll be okay."

"How's Mary handling it?"

"We haven't exactly talked about it much. I've been a little distracted," John admitted. In all honesty, he had no clue how Mary felt about all this. He'd been so busy drowning in his own grief that he hadn't paid any attention to her. There would certainly be a conversation at some point, but neither of them was ready for that.

"Of course. I understand, John. This must be so hard on all three of you. To think little Rosie will never remember her godfather," Mrs. Hudson remarked sadly. John considered that one of the most tragic aspects of the situation. He'd so looked forward to raising Rosie alongside the eccentric consulting detective, to letting Sherlock teach her about chemistry and violin and even murder (when she was old enough). He'd seen the way Sherlock acted around Archie at the wedding, and knew he was fantastic with children, though he never admitted it.

When he first found out Mary was expecting, John had panicked a little inside. He'd never had the best relationship with his own father and had absolutely no idea how to be one. This child of his would depend on him more than anyone he'd ever known, and he wasn't ready for such an immense responsibility. Choosing Sherlock as godfather hadn't even required a discussion; neither John nor Mary would ever dream of picking anyone else. John had been glad to know he wouldn't be Rosie's only male role model. He didn't think he could bear that burden all by himself. He'd also known Sherlock would play a larger role in his daughter's life than a typical godfather—and he did. In the short time he'd known her, Sherlock had practically been her second dad.

He knew Rosie was far too young to be making permanent memories, but he hoped that somehow Sherlock had made an impression on her, that she would remember him in her own way as time progressed. From here on out, she'd only see photographs and hear stories. John could picture himself reading his old blog posts aloud to a wide-eyed and attentive little girl. She might wonder why she never got to meet the man with whom her dad shared so many adventures. She might ask where he was now, why he never came to visit. When she was old enough to understand, John would make sure she knew what happened. Her godfather died when she was just a baby, but he died a hero.

"John, you should go back home. Be with Mary," Mrs. Hudson suggested. Evidently, she could see how much he was struggling and thought his wife would be able to offer more comfort. John didn't think she could, but he did need to get away from here. He couldn't sit here any longer, knowing that just above sat an empty flat. Sherlock's empty flat.

"Okay," John said. He wanted to say something more, to offer consolation to the now-grieving landlady, but he couldn't bring himself to speak. He left silently, acknowledging his departure with only a curt nod.

He did as Mrs. Hudson asked and returned home to his wife and daughter. When he entered, he was greeted with the distinct sound of crying. It definitely wasn't Rosie, so that left only one possible culprit. He dashed into their bedroom and found Mary clutching a pillow that was wet with her tears. She saw him and immediately tried to regain her composure, but John had already seen everything he needed to see. She'd held herself together in front of John, knowing that he needed her support more than she needed his. She'd waited until he left to allow her emotions to surface.

John was so absorbed in his own grief that he forgot how much his wife had cared for his best friend. Sometimes, he thought he was the only person in the world who liked Sherlock, since the detective insisted on making enemies with almost everyone he met. But that was far from the truth. Sherlock had touched many more lives than his. John remembered the first thing Mary said in regards to Sherlock, "I like him." And that was after John mercilessly beat the crap out of him multiple times.

He regretted attacking Sherlock that night. He'd been blinded by rage and betrayal, unable to express himself with words. Violence had seemed the only answer. Deep down, he'd been unimaginably relieved that his best friend was alive. He was only angry because he'd been left out of the plot and allowed to suffer. If the same thing were to happen this time—he knew it wouldn't, that Sherlock was well and truly dead, but he could imagine—he didn't think he'd be able to do much more than hug the detective and never let him go. He'd give anything for this to be just another elaborate scheme.

"John?" Mary's voice snapped him out of his reverie.

"Mary," he replied, sitting down on the bed next to her. "You're upset."

"Brilliant deduction," she sniffled, grabbing a tissue. "I'm sorry. You really don't need my feelings dumped on you right now. Go; I'll be fine in a few minutes."

"I'm not leaving you."

They sat together for almost an hour. A hole had been ripped in their lives, but between the two of them they could hold that hole mostly closed. John felt guilty for not asking Mary if she was okay sooner. He should have handled that before running away to Mrs. Hudson. Mary may not have known Sherlock as long as John had, but they had their own unique relationship and a bond almost as strong. Sure, she'd shot him, but if Sherlock could forgive her for that, so could John.

However, he could never forgive Norbury. He didn't know where they'd taken her, and it was probably for the better if he never found out. If he ever saw her face again, there's no telling what he would do. He'd murdered for Sherlock before, and he wouldn't hesitate to do it again. He remembered the adrenaline that had rushed through his veins when he saw Sherlock poised to swallow that little red and white pill. There had only been one plausible course of action: eliminate the threat.

That time, he'd saved Sherlock's life. Maybe he'd chosen the right pill and hadn't been in any danger in the first place, but they both made it through unscathed. That was all that mattered. He chuckled at the memory of Sherlock attempting to refuse the bright orange shock blanket. John could use one of those right now. He, too, had just witnessed a murder.

"It was on the news," Mary sighed. "The aquarium's been closed all day."

"I'll bet traffic there will be awfully light for at least a week," John huffed. He shouldn't be cracking jokes at a time like this. Scathingly dry humor was not in his old repertoire of coping mechanisms. Drinking, wallowing, crying, yes, but kidding around? It just wasn't like him. Maybe Sherlock's absence had already changed him fundamentally.

"John, you shouldn't have followed me. You should've just let me run away until it was safe." Mary was crying again, silent tears weaving salty trails down her cheeks.

"I couldn't do that. First, Sherlock insisted, and he's never ever failed at dragging me along wherever his next case takes him. Second, Rosie needed her mother. I can't possibly raise her all by myself," John explained.

"But I brought this on you. If it weren't for me, none of this would've happened. I almost took Sherlock away from you once, and now I really did."

John had been thinking the exact same thing. While Mary hadn't pulled the trigger, it was undeniably because of her that they were in that aquarium last night. John remembered last Christmas at Sherlock's parents' house, when he threw her AGRA memory stick in the fireplace. He hadn't known there were more of them. He'd told her: "The problems of your past are your business. The problems of your future are my privilege." Well, a certain 'problem of her past' pulled a gun on Sherlock and killed him. That definitely made it John's business.

Yet John couldn't find within himself any anger towards Mary. At Christmas, he'd warned her that he was pissed off about her hiding such a secret, and that it would slip out now and again, but for whatever reason he couldn't tap into that rage right now. Maybe it would surface later. Or maybe it wouldn't, and he'd remain in this emotionless limbo for the rest of his life.

"Oh John, you must be so mad at me," Mary cried. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed. John gently embraced her and held her against his chest. It hurt him to see her so upset over this.

"Shhh," he soothed. "It's not your fault. You did everything you could to protect us."

"And it wasn't enough."

~0~

The next day, John and Mary were met with an unexpected visitor. The morning started out ordinary enough, though both Watsons woke with red and puffy eyes. They didn't speak about last night, choosing instead to let those feelings simmer for a little while. For the time being, they didn't act like husband and wife; they were just co-parents of Rosie. John wasn't sure if they'd ever return to the way things were before, but he knew he wanted Mary to remain a part of his life. He still loved her. He loved the person she was now, despite the horrors of her past. She'd allowed herself to have a normal life, and John thought she deserved it. Hopefully, Vivian Norbury was the last remnant of her previous life that would come back to haunt her.

By ten o'clock in the morning, John had done nothing productive beyond taking care of Rosie's immediate needs. He allowed Mary to change the bandages on his hand, but otherwise spent the morning staring at the wall. He hadn't slept, not really. Maybe he drifted off for an hour or two, but now there was very little distinction between his real life and his worst nightmares.

He didn't eat breakfast because he wasn't hungry, nor did he think he'd have the patience to actually sit down and eat anything. But his quiet morning was interrupted by a knock at the door. Mary was with Rosie, so John would have to answer. But who would be visiting them? John pondered this question as he brought himself to his feet and trudged towards the front door. Before he got there, whoever-it-was knocked again. John picked up the pace a little bit, frustrated at the person's impatience. He unceremoniously wrenched the door open and looked up into the face of Mycroft Holmes.

However, he was barely recognizable. He hadn't changed physically, per se, but his demeanor was unlike anything John had ever seen before from the British government. Mycroft always carried himself imposingly, looking down his nose at all the 'goldfish' that surrounded him. He looked like he knew infinitely more than you and wasn't afraid to let you know it. More often than not, he did know more. Sherlock had admitted that Mycroft was even smarter than him, and John feared what would happen if the elder Holmes ever mustered the energy to do 'legwork.'

But this Mycroft was not the smug, superior know-it-all that John knew. His shoulders were hunched, his umbrella clutched halfheartedly instead of wielded like a weapon. His eyes lacked their ever-present calculating glare, and his suit wasn't nearly as impeccably groomed as always. Any doubts John had about Mycroft's feelings for his brother instantly dissipated. Mycroft Holmes was in mourning.

Not a word passed between the two of them, but John invited the elder Holmes inside. He would never turn away someone so obviously in need of consoling. Mycroft stood aimlessly until John told him to take a seat. He made tea, though he wasn't exactly sure why. Mary peeked out from Rosie's room, caught one glimpse of their guest, and dove back inside. Apparently John would have to handle this one alone.

"How did you do it?" Mycroft's voice suddenly shattered the silence that had permeated the flat all morning.

"Do what?" John sat down across from him and attempted to meet Mycroft's gaze.

"I needn't say it aloud. There's been little else on any of our minds." He was right—John knew exactly what he was referring to—but he was evading. John remembered doing the same exact thing the first time he went to see his therapist after Sherlock's fake suicide. She'd forced him to say it himself.

"I'm afraid I don't follow. Enlighten me," John instructed, utilizing the same tone Mycroft typically used when he spoke to John.

"How'd you do… anything? When you thought he was… gone."

Of all the unlikely things to potentially happen to John Watson, Mycroft Holmes seeking grief counsel was one he never expected. The man shunned emotion and sentiment like a vegetarian shuns steak. But he was in unfamiliar territory now, somewhere Mycroft rarely ventured. John knew he was the type to thoroughly research anything before he did it to ensure he was prepared for every possible outcome. He and Sherlock had come up with thirteen scenarios for the encounter with Moriarty on the roof of St Bart's. But even the great Mycroft Holmes had been surprised by Vivian Norbury's reaction to being cornered. Nobody had anticipated a homicide.

Everyone who'd witnessed the event was now reeling. But John could see why Mycroft was especially affected by this tragedy. First, he'd never experienced this before. John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade all had. Second, he'd witnessed his little brother's murder firsthand. Even John hadn't seen the shot fired. Mycroft had watched helplessly as Sherlock went from spouting deductions to bleeding out on the floor. And most importantly, he was immensely protective of his younger sibling. John had seen the lengths he was willing to go to ensure his brother's safety. Taking care of Sherlock had been his job—even more so than whatever he did for the government—and now he was devoid of purpose.

"Mycroft, for the first few months I couldn't do anything. It took a long, long time before things started to get even a little bit better," John admitted. "Even after two years, I still had a long way to go. I was interrupted, but had that not happened, I would have continued to heal with time. Sherlock was important to you, and the hole he left behind is not going to fill overnight, and it will never fill completely, but I can tell you that it won't always be this raw and painful."

Mycroft pondered this for a moment before speaking again. "When he was younger, before he met you, I was convinced he'd eventually take his own life with the drugs, whether he intended to or not. I lost track of how many times I picked up the pieces only for him to fall apart again. And then, as you know, I helped him stage his suicide. I must apologize for that; I now understand exactly what it did to you. But not long ago, I didn't think twice about sending him away to die in a foreign country. What kind of person could do that to their family?"

"You had to do something, and it was either that or send him to prison," John defended. "And I know for a fact that if he'd really gone, you would've worked tirelessly and pulled enough strings to bring him home safe. Because that's the kind of person you are."

"No amount of 'string-pulling' could fix this," Mycroft growled. He wasn't directing anger at John, but towards himself.

"Unfortunately, you're right, it can't. But you can't beat yourself up for being a terrible brother, because you most certainly are not. My sister has fallen as deep into addiction as Sherlock did, and I've done next to nothing. I couldn't even tell you where she lives right now. I'm a pretty terrible brother compared to you. Sherlock was lucky to have you, and not just for the government perks and whatnot. As much as you attempt to deny it, you care."

"Do you know what I told him that Christmas at our parents?" Mycroft paused while John shook his head in dissent. "I told him that his loss would break my heart."

John wished he could've been a fly on the wall for that conversation. He'd only ever seen the two Holmes brothers at each other's throats. Hardly a word passed between them that wasn't sarcastic or mean-spirited. He wondered how Sherlock received a declaration such as that.

"I don't think he quite took me seriously," Mycroft added. "But I know now that I was correct in that assumption."

"Did you just admit to me that you, the so-called 'Iceman,' are heartbroken?" John inquired.

"Yes, I suppose I did." This conversation had obviously helped Mycroft, whose superior tone was gradually returning. Or maybe he thought he'd said too much and was slamming up walls. He stood from the chair and straightened his tie. "I'll be in touch with the funeral arrangements."

The Iceman returneth, John thought. After a much-needed emotional discussion, Mycroft had returned to projecting his cold and aloof persona. Fortunately, John had already said everything that needed to be said. If he tried to throw in more, he would be ignored. He showed Mycroft out and returned to his chair, puzzling over the enigma of a man that had just vacated the flat. Mary emerged from her hiding place with Rosie perched on her hip. She handed the child to John and asked disbelievingly, "Was that Mycroft?

"Yes, it was. He needed a chat," John explained.

"A chat?"

"Yes. He's really torn up. I've never seen him like that."

"Well, he has just lost a brother. Even someone like him would be affected by that."

"Especially someone like him."


	4. Recollection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is easily one of my favorite chapters of the entire story. You'll see why...

John wore the same thing from Sherlock's previous funeral. He spent the day accepting sympathy hugs and assuring various people that he was alright, when of course he was far from it. He took note of all the familiar faces that had come to pay their respects: Donovan and Anderson, Angelo, Henry Knight, Mary's friend Janine, Bainbridge, Tessa from the Mayfly Man case, Bill Wiggins, Craig the hacker whose dog they'd borrowed, even Charlie Welsborough's parents. They'd just lost a son, and here they were mourning the man who'd told them exactly how their child died. There were more people who John couldn't even identify: clients from cases Sherlock had before John came into the picture, blog followers he'd never met in person, and more.

The mood was drastically different from last time, suicide and murder being two very different ways to die. And Sherlock's parents were present this time, when last time they'd been in on the trickery. They were understandably distraught and alternated between clinging to Mycroft and to each other. Neither Molly nor Mrs. Hudson stopped crying the entire time. John pitied whoever had been stuck with the unfortunate job of breaking the news to the pathologist. Greg Lestrade maintained a professional composure, more accustomed to homicide than any man should be, but anyone who knew him could read between the lines and see he was grieving. John, on the other hand, went through the motions in a paralyzed state of hollowness.

He hadn't offered to speak, and Mycroft hadn't asked him to. He wouldn't know what to say. Even if he did, he couldn't speak it aloud in front of so many people without crumbling to dust. So he sat and watched Mycroft do all the talking—watched, not listened. He could see the elder Holmes' mouth moving, but he couldn't hear a thing. He wanted to listen, wanted to know how Mycroft would honor his little brother, but his brain refused to receive the audio input coming from the front of the room. Maybe it was better this way. If he heard what Mycroft was saying, he'd probably cry.

He didn't want to cry anymore.

John's ears continued to buzz with white noise for the remainder of the service. He couldn't even hear Mary when she spoke right next to him. Mostly, he replied with a noncommittal grunt or a headshake, and it worked well enough. He doesn't remember the journey to the cemetery. He doesn't remember much of anything about the whole ordeal. One moment the casket was aboveground, and the next it was below. One moment he stood on damp grass, and the next he sat in a chair back home.

It was over. Sherlock rested six feet under, and they could all start moving on with their lives, right? Wrong. The feeling that he'd forgotten something nagged at him constantly. He knew exactly what he'd forgotten, but there was nothing he could do about it. Sherlock was the only thing missing right now, and John couldn't just go back and retrieve him. If he could, he wouldn't hesitate. He'd give anything for another miracle resurrection.

~0~

"John," Mary approached him a few days after the funeral. They'd spent those days barely interacting, speaking only when necessary. Mary had taken the bandages off his right hand yesterday, revealing the scabbed-over wounds on his fingertips. Part of him wanted to scrub at them again and watch his fingers bleed, just so he'd know he's still alive. Lately, he hasn't been so sure, often taking his own pulse for reassurance that he's not some sort of zombie.

Briefly, John's thoughts went to his job, and if he even still had one. He'd missed several shifts already since that night at the aquarium, and he hadn't made any attempt at contact. But neither had they called him. Maybe they'd seen the news and figured it out, or maybe Mary had taken care of it for him. Either way, he didn't see how he could possibly throw himself into ordinary life anytime soon.

The tone of Mary's voice when she started the conversation indicated that she was about to broach a difficult topic. "I know you don't want to think about it, but this is going to be a big decision. Mycroft is leaving it up to you because he knows how important it is."

"Just spit it out," John quipped. The preamble was making him even more nervous about whatever she wanted to talk about. He recognized that he sounded angry, even though he didn't mean to. But he honestly didn't care.

"Do you want to move back to Baker Street? Mycroft said it's yours if you want it."

Silence. John tried to process the question, but his brain felt like radio static. He'd known this would be asked at some point; they couldn't just leave the flat to collect dust, but he'd hoped he would be stable enough to handle it when it was inevitably brought up. Evidently, he wasn't. The mere thought of even visiting his old home made him dizzy and nauseous.

Even though they'd moved in at the same time, it always seemed like Sherlock's flat more than John's. The detective certainly left more of a mark. Almost every surface in their home was littered with science equipment and the contents of random experiments. Unsolved cases were jackknifed to the mantel, the wall above the couch was riddled with thumb tack and gunshot holes, the fridge was filled with God-knows-what, and the very air tingled with Sherlock's manic energy. Any personality John brought to Baker Street was hopelessly overshadowed.

He remembered the last time he crossed the threshold of 221B knowing his flatmate would never return. He'd sat in his chair, staring at the unoccupied one before him and wondering what the hell to do now that his whole life had thrown itself from the top of a building. What could you do when the most important person in your life wasn't there anymore? John had moved out and attempted to move on, failing miserably at the latter. Maybe he should do it differently this time.

God, how sick and twisted was his life? He continuously compared this time to last time. Most people only lost their best friend once—if that. In a way, he was fortunate. He had experience with this sort of thing; he was an expert in grieving. He used to be an expert on combat medicine, then he became Sherlock's blogger and companion, now what was he? That was something he needed to figure out. But first: to Baker Street.

"John?" Mary got his attention. "What do you want to do?"

"I think I need to pay a visit first. Last time, I couldn't even handle being in there. But this time might be different."

"Okay," she said, and gave him a hug. He didn't flinch at the sudden contact or lean into it, just kind of stood there and let it happen. Mary was his wife, but there was a distance between them that may never be bridged. A part of John would always recognize the role she played in Sherlock's death.

~0~

Mary and John arrived at the doorstep of 221B. The familiar bronze numbers beckoned John closer. He stood on the stoop and gently ran his fingers over the numbers, memorizing their every groove. He noticed the knocker had been straightened, and automatically readjusted it to lean to the right, the way Sherlock always did. Mycroft must have been here earlier. Had he been here on business, or simply to remember his little brother?

"Are you ready?" Mary questioned. John nodded and pulled out the key he still had. Even after the Fall, he still kept a key to Baker Street, though he never used it during that time. He opened the door and stepped inside, breathing in the unmistakable aroma of home. When he'd come to break the news to Mrs. Hudson, he hadn't dared venture upstairs. They'd had the conversation in the landlady's flat, far beneath John and Sherlock's home. Now, upstairs was where he had to go. He listened for a few moments for Mrs. Hudson, but she must have been out. The flat was eerily silent.

Mary asked, "Do you want me to go with you?" John pondered for a moment, and decided it would be better if she came along. He had to keep reminding himself that this was not an exact repeat of last time; that this time, he had other people in his life that mattered, other people that could help.

"Yes," he told her. He started upstairs, listening to each of the seventeen stairs creak in its own unique way. Every time Sherlock came bounding up these stairs, John listened to the melody of squeaks and groans. He could always tell when Sherlock had a case from the distinct tempo of the steps' song. As he and Mary ascended, a new version of the song was created. Mary treaded more lightly, her steps just barely out of synch with John's. It was different, but John found he liked it.

When he arrived at the landing, he took a deep breath before stepping into the living room. Mary remained in the doorway, close enough that John was aware of her presence, but far enough that she wasn't intruding. Of all places in 221B, this room was the one that was most unequivocally Sherlock's. From the placement of the furniture to the mess of papers and books scattered about, the room embodied everything about the detective. John could almost hear violin music, though he could see the instrument on the table, clearly not in use. Its owner would never pick it up again. John slowly approached the violin and stared down at the instrument which had been the object of both annoyance and admiration. He'd loved listening to it—just not at three in the morning.

He reached out to run his fingers over the glossy wood, even daring to pluck the smallest string. Sherlock would chastise him for calling it that and proceed to tell him its proper name, but he wasn't here to do so. A single note rang out in the silence of the flat.

"You're not exactly ready for Bach, but it's a start."

Sherlock's voice had been inside John's head since the day he met him, jokingly calling him an idiot whenever he did something questionable, but never before had it sounded so concrete. For a second, John imagined that if he turned around, he'd see the detective curled up in his chair, smiling to himself at John's attempt at music-making. The thought was comforting. John didn't want to turn around, because doing so would prove that he wasn't actually there, that he would never be there. However, he couldn't very well stand there staring at the violin forever, so John reluctantly turned around.

And Sherlock was there.

Just as John had pictured him in his head moments ago, Sherlock sat in his chair, sparkling blue eyes staring inquisitively at him. John's first thought: how did the bastard fake it this time? But one glance at Mary proved that this was no miraculous return from the dead; she showed no signs of being aware of Sherlock's presence in the room. Which meant John was hallucinating. Just great.

He clenched his eyes shut and shook his head vigorously back and forth, trying to physically shake away the vision. But when he opened his eyes again, the illusion remained. He could tell Sherlock (Sherlock's ghost?) was enjoying watching him put the pieces together from the mysterious glint in his eye. A moment later, it shifted to his 'we both know what's going on here' face, the one John used to despise. Except this time, he was pretty sure he actually did know what was going on.

John wanted to run across the room and hug the illusion, to take this opportunity to tell Sherlock everything he never got to say to him in life, but he knew it wouldn't be real. And Mary would think he was crazy, because she would see what he's actually doing: talking to empty space. If he admitted to seeing a life-like apparition of his dead best friend, she might have him committed to a psychiatric hospital.

So John just stood there and gaped. Anyone looking at the scene would think he was simply infatuated with the unoccupied chair. That was reasonable; Mary could assume he was coming to terms with the permanence of the chair's emptiness.

"John, you okay?" she asked from her position in the doorway.

John didn't answer. He couldn't tear his eyes off of Sherlock. The detective looked at him quizzically, then asked, "Are you gonna tell her about me?" He should. He should tell Mary, because this was unhealthy. He shouldn't be imaging Sherlock so vividly. But if he told her, she'd make him seek help, and he'd go to therapy, and they'd drug him up with anti-depressants and mood stabilizers, and Sherlock's apparition would eventually disappear. John didn't want it to.

If he kept this a secret, Sherlock would stay. Of course, it wasn't really Sherlock, just a projection of John's memories of him, but it was so, so close, and that was good enough. It was certainly better than never seeing him again. So John shook his head, and Sherlock smiled sadly back at him.

"You should tell her."

Instead of heeding his advice, John sent Mary away. He told her he needed a moment alone. She obliged, heading back down the staircase which sang yet another brand new tune of creaks and moans. Not until he heard the front door open and close did John acknowledge Sherlock.

"You're dead," he stated bluntly.

"Yes." Sherlock stood, straightening his cuffs. "I am dead. It's important you know that."

"I—I know that. But you're here?"

"I'm here because you're here. This is our flat, is it not?" Sherlock gestured to the room around him, the room which still held so many of his things. Most of John's things had been moved out and were now in the home he shared with Mary and Rosie. Ever since Sherlock's return from the dead, 221B belonged exclusively to him. But now John had the opportunity to change that. He was here to decide if he wanted to return to living here or not.

"It was ours. It's really yours now," John commented. "For a while, you'd even removed my chair."

"Yes, but I put it back, remember?"

"You put it back days after my wife shot you in the chest and in doing so ripped your sutures and nearly killed yourself." John still had occasional nightmares about that day, about what would've happened if Sherlock hadn't called an ambulance for himself. John had been so wrapped up in his wife and her secret past that he—a bloody doctor—hadn't even noticed Sherlock's predicament. At least those dreams would stop now. He didn't have to imagine what it would be like if Sherlock died; he was living it.

"I put it back because this will always be our flat. Not just mine."

"But it can't be ours anymore. You're not here."

"Aren't I?" Sherlock smirked mischievously.

John wanted to smack him. Even as a construct of John's own subconscious, he was an annoying know-it-all. But the more John thought about it, the more he realized Sherlock was right. Sherlock wasn't here in person, but 221B Baker Street was a living personification of the detective. John tried to imagine someone else, someone ordinary, living here, but the idea simply did not compute. If someone else moved in, he would fix the holes in the wall, replace the furniture, change the wallpaper, fill the fridge with food, and lead an ordinary life. He would wipe out everything that made this Sherlock's flat. The concept made John shudder.

Then John pictured returning here with Mary and Rosie. They would clean it up some, file away all the loose papers, replace some bedroom furniture, and childproof certain things, but the essence of 221B would remain intact. John imagined raising his daughter in the place where he and her late godfather had made some of their happiest memories, and suddenly he knew this was how things were meant to be. Rosie may never remember meeting Sherlock, but she would grow up surrounded by his essence and listening to stories of his adventures with her father.

John looked at Sherlock and nodded emphatically. Then he turned to head back downstairs to tell Mary his verdict. Just before his foot touched the first step, he looked over his shoulder. The living room was empty. He reminded himself that it had been empty the whole time, that he'd just had a conversation with an empty chair. He sighed and descended the staircase, meeting Mary on the doorstep. He took her hand and told her that he couldn't bear to live anywhere else but here.

"Me neither," she replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We know that John continued to see Mary after her death, I thought it fitting for Sherlock to make an appearance in the same fashion. Plus, what a lot of people don't like about deathfics is the absence of beloved characters. A Sherlock story needs Sherlock Holmes in it, in some way or another :)


	5. Inheritance

Once Mary told Mycroft that John accepted his offer of taking the house, the elder Holmes elaborated on the specifics of Sherlock's will. John didn't even know Sherlock had one, since he usually ignored such boring necessities. There hadn't been a discussion of a will last time, which should have been enough to make John at least a little bit suspicious. He'd been too grief-stricken to notice something like that.

Mycroft told them that Sherlock had explicitly left everything in his possession to Dr. John Hamish Watson—except one thing. The skull that sat on the mantelpiece would go to Rosie. When Mary relayed this information to John, he didn't believe her. Why would he do that? What use would a baby have for a human cranium? And Rosie was only a few months old. That meant he'd amended his will recently, after the birth of John's daughter. Had he known his life would soon reach its end? Or had he just been so excited at the prospect of having a goddaughter that he felt the need to do something concrete about it? It was a mystery, but John accepted it as a bit of a posthumous joke.

He and Mary started packing up their things in preparation for the move to Baker Street. It was an exhausting process, but John was glad to be occupied with something other than his thoughts. But everything came grinding to a halt when John stumbled across his and Mary's wedding album. He should've just put it in a box and moved on, but the promise of its contents captivated him. He took it over to the sofa and opened it on his lap. The first page was, of course, him and Mary leaving the church surrounded by a cloud of confetti. John smiled, memories of the happiest day of his life swirling through his head. He chuckled, remembering that every single one of these photos was taken by the man who'd almost killed Bainbridge and Major Sholto.

Many of them depicted guests in various stages of merriment; John mostly glossed over those. His eye was instantly drawn to any picture that contained Sherlock. There were a couple of all three of them in a row, taken before John urged Sherlock aside to get one of just the bride and groom. The image was fitting, as Sherlock was just as integral a part of John's life as Mary was.

One picture in particular actually brought a smile to John's face. Their murderous photographer had captured the moment John stood up to hug Sherlock in the middle of his speech, when the crowd's happy tears had made Sherlock worry he'd done it wrong. The spirit of Sherlock's entire speech was contained in that image. John closed his eyes and remembered listening to his best man give what was probably the greatest speech in the history of weddings—in the history of oration itself. Sherlock, who usually wielded words as weapons and used them to belittle and demean people, had instead woven an intricate, beautiful commendation of their friendship and of John personally.

John wished he had Sherlock's fantastic memory so he could replay every single word of it. He wished he'd had the forethought to plant a recording device under the table. He should've known that Sherlock, his wonderful best friend who excelled at anything and everything he put his mind to, when faced with the daunting task of being best man, would create a magnificent work of art.

"I agonized over that speech for hours." John startled at the familiar voice sounding in his head. Sherlock's apparition had returned, casually leaning against the wall across the room. "It had to be perfect."

"It was perfect," John sighed, returning his gaze to the photographs beneath his fingertips. "You were perfect," he added almost silently. But as quickly as he'd appeared, Sherlock had gone again. John was relieved he hadn't heard that last comment. Although he had heard, since he was a construct of John's mind and John had been the one to speak it. He flipped through a few more pages, grinning at a few shots of Sherlock with Janine. He still couldn't believe that Sherlock led her on for so long just to get to Magnussen.

Mary evidently noticed he'd stopped helping box things because she came out of their bedroom looking prepared to scold him. Instead, she found him with his nose buried in the album with a smile on his face. The expression must have looked so out of place in light of recent circumstances. John glanced up at her and noticed her lips curl tentatively into a grin.

"What are you looking at?" she asked, sitting down beside him.

"Our wedding album."

They sat together in silence for a few minutes, staring down at these moments frozen in time. John could almost forget about all the drama that had marred their special day, though he supposed people like he and Mary needed a little danger to keep their blood pumping. It certainly made it a memorable occasion.

"We should frame some of these, put them up around the flat," Mary suggested. John considered this idea and decided it would be an ideal way to adapt Baker Street into their home. He rifled through the pages and found his favorites. First, he chose the one of just him and Mary, the first photo of them as a married couple. And second, there was one that depicted him and Mary seated at the table both staring up and to their left at Sherlock while he spoke. He debated on choosing the hugging photograph, but decided that was better left for his and Mary's eyes only. Displaying that openly in their home would give a lot of people the wrong impression.

He showed Mary his choices, and she nodded in agreement. "These are my favorites too. Hopefully they won't be overshadowed by all the baby photos Mrs. Hudson has been taking." John managed a light chuckle at this jest, but he was busy trying to stow away each and every detail he could remember of that magical day. He could never let himself forget the things both Mary and Sherlock had said to him that day, for he'd never felt more loved or more alive.

~0~

While Mary continued packing things up at home, John returned to Baker Street. Over the next few days, he and Mrs. Hudson were going to go through Sherlock's things and decide what to do with it all. They hadn't gotten to do this last time, since John rapidly vacated Baker Street and Mycroft worked some magic to keep the flat vacant for two years. The only problem: there was so much to do that John didn't even know where to start.

Until Mrs. Hudson suggested—practically demanded—they start by converting the fridge into actual food storage and not a biohazard zone. John wholeheartedly agreed. This would be one of the easier tasks, since the various experiments tucked away in there carried very little emotional connection. John had desperately wanted to empty the fridge of all Sherlock's nonsense on many occasions, but he'd refrained because he knew that weird science was sometimes all that kept his friend away from the black hole of drugs.

They pulled everything out, including food in order to give the inside a good washing. John found a jar of severed fingers and something that was possibly a human liver, though it was beyond recognizable. He wondered what on Earth Sherlock had been trying to learn from those. They returned everything edible to the now-squeaky-clean refrigerator and moved on to the rest of the kitchen. Dishes, mugs, and the like would stay in the cabinets. They were in reasonably good shape, so there was no reason to get rid of them. Plus, John found something comforting about Baker Street tea mugs. It just didn't taste the same when he made it at the other flat and drank from one of Mary's ordinary mugs.

Next they would need to take care of the mess upon the kitchen table. Honestly, John didn't even know what their table looked like—it was always completely covered in science equipment, all of which now technically belonged to John.

"I honestly don't know what to do with it all," John admitted to Mrs. Hudson. "It feels wrong to just get rid of it, but I know it'll never be used again."

"What would Sherlock want you to do? He left it to you because he trusts your judgment," she responded. John knew she was trying to be helpful, but that just applied extra pressure. He was pretty terrible at guessing what Sherlock was thinking. Their brains worked at drastically different speeds. But John's mind had managed to conjure up an incredibly realistic Sherlock look-alike, so he must have some understanding of him and the inner-workings of his so-called 'hard drive.'

Sherlock used to hate when John moved his stuff without warning, claiming it screwed with his organizational system. As if he had one at all. However he placed things, it made sense only in his head. Everyone else just saw a mess. But when John expressed his desire for at least a little bit of order, Sherlock had happily complied. The detective could be an accommodating flatmate when he wanted to be. And now, this flat would be home to John, Mary, and Rosie. And none of the above would be content with the current arrangement.

Sherlock didn't live here anymore. John kept reminding himself of that fact, however much it pained him. When John decided to move back here, his goal had been to keep the spirit of the great detective alive, not to pretend that all was well and Sherlock would be coming home soon. Because he wasn't coming home. He would never set foot in this flat—or anywhere—ever again.

"Snap out of it. Stop deliberating and get a move on, John, you're wasting my time with your sentiment."

Ah, Sherlock was back. Apparently he could come and go from existence at his leisure. Or maybe he would only appear when John needed a good kick in the ass. John almost acknowledged him, but Mrs. Hudson was behind him making tea and she'd surely think he'd gone bonkers if he started talking to himself. So he just listened while Sherlock talked at him.

"John, this is going to be your home. You need to make it yours. I get that you're trying to preserve my essence or whatever, but there's only so far you can go. This flat needs to be safe for Rosie and suitable for you and Mary. No vengeful ghost is going to haunt you because you decided you could do without a chemistry set."

Sherlock finished his tirade, and John half-expected him to disappear now that he'd spoken his mind. But he stuck around, puttering about the living room while Mrs. Hudson and John remained in the kitchen. It was just like the old days, when John would sit here and do Sudoku and crosswords with their landlady while Sherlock thought or played or sulked.

"I know exactly where we should donate it," John stated firmly. Mrs. Hudson had watched him silently mull it over for a long time, and seemed relieved that he'd reached an answer.

"And where's that?" she questioned.

"Bart's. If anyone could do this stuff justice, it's Molly. This way he can still be at work with her, in a way."

"I think she'll really appreciate it," Mrs. Hudson said.

"You know she's going to cry when you give it to her," Sherlock called from the other room. He was probably right, but they would be at least partially happy tears. When she looked through the lens of this microscope, it would be like seeing through Sherlock's eyes. John and Mrs. Hudson spent the next half an hour packing beakers and test tubes and pipettes into boxes. John loved the clink sound that the glassware made when it hit against another surface. It sounded like science.

"Don't be ridiculous, science doesn't have a sound," Sherlock remarked. John smiled and bonked two flasks together gently. He knew there was no such thing as the sound of science, but the noise did remind him of Sherlock hard at work on whichever experiment he'd drawn up to occupy himself between cases.

When they finally finished packing everything up, they took a step back and looked around. For the first time ever it looked like an actual kitchen instead of a science lab that had been struck by a tornado. "This room hasn't looked so pristine in years," Mrs. Hudson stated. "I could never get him to clean up after himself."

"He never saw much benefit in tidying up, did he?" John sighed.

"No."

The remainder of the flat further evidenced this, and John was more than a little daunted at the prospect of sifting through even more of Sherlock's things. Partly because of the physical labor, but also because he knew he'd eventually uncover something that made him emotional. But he kept pressing through while Mrs. Hudson took a rest back downstairs. It was nearing three in the afternoon, and John had promised Mary he would be home by dinnertime. He could probably finish a small room by then, so he elected to do the bathroom.

For a long time, he and Sherlock had shared, but evidence of John's presence had been erased from the room. He left the door open while he sorted and Sherlock's apparition stood in the doorway, hurling criticisms every once in a while. Most of the objects could be thrown away, so John did just that.

"There's probably enough trace saliva on that to clone me," Sherlock said when John picked up a toothbrush. Although the suggestion had apparently come from the detective's mouth, it must have been John's own thought. Did he really just consider that? Even if he had the resources or the money to make one, a clone wouldn't be the same. It might look and sound like Sherlock, but its personality would be different. It might not even have the same intelligence or deductive ability. John tossed the toothbrush in the trash can.

Looking through the cabinets, he found more bottles of shampoo and conditioner than he'd ever seen in a man's bathroom. Sherlock must've put a lot of effort into his mop of dark curls. John couldn't even begin to count the number of times he'd caught him mussing his fingers through it. Maybe that's why he'd hated the deerstalker hat; it messed up his hair game.

"That is not my reason for detesting that abysmal excuse for a hat," Sherlock quipped.

"Sure it isn't," John thought. He worked for another two hours, until there was nothing left to sift through. The Sherlock illusion kept him company the entire time, and John was secretly glad it stayed. God, he really was going crazy. He was enjoying the companionship provided by an imaginary friend. Well, an imagined version of a real-life friend. A deceased real-life friend. This was some Sixth Sense level craziness.

Afterwards, he joined Mrs. Hudson for a cuppa. Sherlock didn't follow. In his absence, an agonizing sense of loneliness pursued John down the staircase. The stairs creaked a very unfamiliar tune, as John paused every few steps to turn around and check for his companion. He decided that he really didn't like that particular melody.

"I finished the bathroom," John announced when Mrs. Hudson plopped a steaming mug in front of him. She put sugar on the table, forgetting that John didn't take it. Sherlock had always added a liberal amount of sugar. Probably because he got very little from actual food.

"Wonderful. You, Mary, and Rosie will be settled in very soon at this rate."

"I'm looking forward to it."

"I'm glad. I know it's only been a few days, but it's terribly quiet here. I keep expecting to hear the violin, or even a scuffle with some knife-wielding murderer, but it's just silence. I used to pray for a moment's respite from all the noise; now that I have it I don't know what to do with it!"

"I'm sorry. I know you miss him. We all do. But I can promise you will be woken up at ungodly hours of the morning once you have an infant in the house." John cracked a smile, and Mrs. Hudson laughed her birdlike laugh. A few minutes later, John checked the time and headed back home, thanking his landlady for her help.

When he got home, he greeted Mary with a kiss on the cheek and said hello to Rosie. He told them about all he got done today and how excited he was for them to move into his old home. He didn't mention the imaginary Sherlock or how crushingly alone he still felt deep down inside. A part of him hoped Mary would see through him and force him to talk about it, but he continued to put on a brave face. For his wife and daughter, he'd do anything.

~0~

John had told himself he would do Sherlock's bedroom today. He chose to save the living room for last, since that was where they'd spent most of their time together, and this was the only other major project left. He woke up bright and early and headed to Baker Street, using his own key since Mrs. Hudson was still asleep. The boxes of chemistry equipment sat in the entryway, waiting to be taken to Molly. He crept upstairs and down the hallway, but paused just outside the door with his hand poised to turn the knob.

Even when he lived here, he rarely set foot in this room. He never had a reason to. In fact, the last time he set foot in here might have been when Irene Adler drugged him and he couldn't be trusted not to hurt himself accidentally. Sherlock hadn't used it all that often either, as he slept far less than any human should, and when he did it was often on the living room sofa. But he still felt like he was trespassing if he stepped into that room. John knew that Sherlock still kept secrets from him, and anything he was hiding from John would likely be somewhere in this room. He'd once attempted to hide Janine in here, though that had failed miserably.

What would he find if he opened that door? John glanced behind him warily, wondering why his subconscious hadn't conjured Sherlock up yet. He needed Sherlock's voice in his head telling him to stop being such a worrywart. Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward and opened the door.

Glancing around, it looked like any old bedroom, except for maybe the periodic table poster on the wall. Why did Sherlock even have that? He could tell you the name, number, atomic mass, ionization energy, atomic radius, ionic radius, and electronegativity value of any element without hesitation. John chuckled, thinking that maybe Sherlock was just a bit of a nerd. He turned his attention to the bed, which was pristinely made. Neither John nor Mrs. Hudson had been in here to make the bed since Sherlock's death, so he hadn't slept here in the days before.

John slowly lowered himself to sit on the side of the bed, still studying every inch of the room around him. Next to the window was another, smaller periodic table above a photo of an old white bearded man, Dmitri Mendeleev. John remembered enough chemistry to know he practically invented the periodic table. Okay, Sherlock was definitely nerdy. On the opposite wall sat a display case filled with various odds and ends, books, and loose papers. Above the bed was a framed certificate of sorts in a language John didn't recognize. Another photo on the wall—was that Edgar Allen Poe? Sherlock hated literature, although John thought maybe the macabre nature of Poe's work would be enticing enough for Sherlock. He'd also written detective stories.

John's gaze was drawn to the bedside table. He would have to start sifting through Sherlock's belongings at some point, and it seemed an innocuous enough place to start. John stood up and opened the first drawer, and his jaw practically fell open when he caught sight of what was inside. He would've been less surprised if he'd found cocaine. The drawer was empty but for two bottles of pills rolling around. John's mind immediately jumped to Sherlock's history of addiction and he worried that these had somehow been obtained illegally. But he cautiously picked one up and read the label: sertraline, prescribed to Sherlock Holmes. Anxiety medication.

John's head spun; his brain couldn't handle this information. Dizzy with shock, he stood up and staggered back to the bed, bottle still clutched in his shaking hands. He read the label more closely, noting the date: a month before John's wedding. He didn't need Sherlock's deduction skills to understand magnitude of this discovery.

Sherlock Holmes, the man who sometimes forgot to eat until he literally passed out from low blood sugar, had suffered from anxiety severe enough to force him to seek help. He sat in a doctor's office among people, waited his turn while surely bouncing off the walls of his mind palace, and spilled his guts to some stranger in a lab coat—a stranger that had observed a critical condition requiring chemical readjustment. He'd actually filled the prescription and taken the pills instead of crushing them up for some experiment.

And he'd still been a ball of nerves. John remembered the meticulous serviette folding, painstaking placement of people at tables, and thorough color selection. Mary had been absolutely right: he was terrified. And John had been so caught up in everything that he hadn't noticed, hadn't offered any consolation whatsoever. God, he was an awful friend. And frankly, an awful doctor.

John wondered if he still took them even after the wedding. He had very little idea what Sherlock was up to immediately afterwards, except that he'd ended up in a drug den around the one month mark. Of course he said it was 'for a case' but John still had his doubts. An overwhelming need for the truth came over him, but he had no way of satisfying it. He couldn't ask Sherlock about it. He'd missed that opportunity, had passively watched it sail by. His own construction of Sherlock didn't even appear to explain himself.

So John was left with yet another unanswerable question to add to his growing list. Sherlock had certainly been a complicated, layered person, but he'd been dead barely a week and new mysteries kept piling up. John sighed exhaustedly and resigned himself to the fact he'd never know even half of what had gone on inside that brilliant mind.

He returned to the living room and grabbed some empty boxes they'd gathered to pack up things they were giving away. Going back to Sherlock's room, he decided he needed to push forward and try to forget about what he'd just learned. He began going through Sherlock's clothes, neatly folding each garment and placing them in a box. Everyone had agreed that his wardrobe should be donated. It would all be too big for John and besides, he had no desire to ever wear any of it. Sherlock and John had very different fashion senses, and it felt wrong to accept hand-me-downs from his younger friend.

For the most part, he was fine, folding dress shirts and trousers and tucking them away. He focused on the task at hand and not his previous revelation. He went through everything without batting an eye until he uncovered a stockpile of scarves. Sherlock had never gone out without a signature scarf tied around his neck—folded in half, free ends on the right of his head and threaded through the loop. John mostly saw him wear the same one, but occasionally he rotated them through.

There must have been at least ten different scarves in the stash, all shades of blue and dark grey. For whatever reason, John couldn't bring himself to fold them up and give them away. Instead, he neatly laid them out on the bed. He looked through the cabinets of knick knacks and made a mental list of what to donate, throw away, and relocate. Mrs. Hudson had come to check on him when he was about halfway through sorting, and she hadn't come back since.

John didn't mind. He'd hoped that without her around, his Sherlock illusion would come back and he could talk to it, but the room remained conspicuously empty of tall, brooding detectives. But Mrs. Hudson did return when he'd finished with everything. She found him standing at the foot of the bed starting at the scarves laid out across it.

"What's the matter John?" she asked, clearly noticing the stress of indecision turning his features haggard.

"All these," John gestured to the items in front of him, "They remind me so much of him, I don't think I could bear to part with them. But I don't wear scarves."

"You could start," she suggested.

"You mean attempt to copy his look and inevitably fail miserably? Never," John quipped. "But I feel like I need to do something meaningful."

"I know! I'll take them to Mrs. Turner next door."

"Do her married ones like scarves?"

"No, but she's quite handy with a needle and thread. You'll see."

Mrs. Hudson gathered them all into a bundle of fabric and bustled out the door. John had no idea what was in store, but he trusted Mrs. Hudson. Exhausted both physically and emotionally, John flopped down on his back across the now-empty bed. He stared at the ceiling and tried to keep the encroaching sadness at bay. Every day that passed was more distance between him and Sherlock. The world kept spinning, even without the detective in it.


	6. Breakdown

The following day, John brought Rosie and Mary to 221B with him. The foot of the staircase was now surrounded by boxes and boxes of things that needed to be given away. John would move some of them today; they were a tripping hazard for Mrs. Hudson. He and Mary left the baby with Mrs. Hudson downstairs and started work on the living room. Once again, the stairs creaked as they ascended.

He started by rifling through the endless stacks of books on the shelves. Most were nonfiction texts, however John did find several of Shakespeare's plays and an Edgar Allan Poe. Most he reshelved, even though they'd rarely be read. He kept them more for the aesthetic of a bookshelf full of well-worn volumes. Besides, he didn't own anything he'd rather put on display here.

He needed a stepstool to comfortably reach the topmost shelves, something Sherlock would definitely have made fun of him for. The books up here appeared rarely-used, a thick layer of unbroken dust coasting the entire shelf. John was surprised and a little bit intrigued to find three separate books on beekeeping. He'd never heard Sherlock mention an interest in apiaries. He was now beginning to learn there was a lot he didn't know about his friend.

He turned around and watched Mary for a few moments, his wife buzzing around the home that would soon be theirs. It filled him with a warm happiness that almost quieted the roaring ache of losing Sherlock—almost. It was like a constant ringing in his ears, its intensity waxing and waning at random. Sometimes he could barely hear it, like when he was playing with Rosie. Other times it growled so loudly that it gave him a headache and he couldn't focus until it eased again.

Just like that, the feeling peaked again. He stepped down from the stool, afraid he might actually fall over, and took a seat in his chair. He buried his face in his hands because he couldn't look up at the empty chair across from him. He needed a break. He'd spent several days in a row discovering and rediscovering things that made him miss his best friend more than ever.

"I'm going to Bart's," he announced. "I'll take the chemistry stuff to Molly."

"Okay," Mary said. One look at him and she could understand that he needed some time out of the flat. "I'll just keep going, shall I?"

"Yes."

John trod back downstairs and grabbed two of the boxes labeled for Molly. He carried them to car and came back for the rest of them. There had been so much stuff even Molly probably wouldn't use all of it. He drove to the hospital in grim silence, dreading what would await him there. When he arrived, he stepped out of the car and inadvertently walked over to the spot behind the ambulance station: the spot on which he'd stood when he watched it happen. He looked up at the rooftop, fearing that his subconscious would paint Sherlock standing up there. Maybe he'd be forced to watch him jump again.

Fortunately, the detective did not appear on the roof, but did pop into existence next to John. "You just come and go as you please, don't you?" John asked, suddenly angry at this version of Sherlock that he created. He strode back towards the car, trying to leave him behind, but the apparition persistently followed.

"Seeing as I'm inside your head, that's coming and going at your pleasure, John," Sherlock said. "Or maybe at your need."

"So you only show up when I need you? Does that make you my conscience? You did some pretty questionable things when you were alive, so you're really not the best model for a conscience." John turned his attention to the sky, as if speaking to a God of some sort. "Can I return this one, maybe get a Buddha or a Gandhi to be my guidance?"

Sherlock sighed in exasperation. People nearby were starting to give them funny looks, but John didn't care. "John," Sherlock began. "You cannot just throw me back like a fish you never intended to catch. And you wouldn't even if you could."

"Maybe I would!" John was shouting now, tapping into anger reserves he didn't even know he had. "Maybe I should've told Mike Stamford to fuck off! Or I should've been like everybody else and freaked out when you told me about my drunk of a sister from one glance at my phone! I should've turned tail and run if I'd known what was good for me!"

"John, you don't mean that," Sherlock said meekly.

"Oh yes I do! If I'd never met you, I wouldn't have become a murderer! Or been thrown into a bonfire! Or strapped to a fucking bomb! Or drugged and used as a lab rat for one of your stupid experiments! Or trapped underground with what you told me was a live bomb, only for it to be another one of your sodding tricks! And I certainly wouldn't have had to watch you die TWICE!"

John didn't know when he started crying, but his cheeks were damp. Exhausted from his tirade, he was gasping for breath. He slumped against the side of the car, sliding down until he sat on the ground. He looked around for Sherlock, but the detective was nowhere in sight. John's angry rant had driven him away. He thought he would feel relief that he'd achieved what he set out to do. But the real Sherlock had wanted him around even at his worst, and now John had stooped even lower than that. He felt nothing more than crushing defeat.

How long he sat there on the concrete ground, he didn't know, but his back ached by the time he yanked himself to his feet. How could he face Molly in the wake of a sobbing breakdown? He couldn't. But he also couldn't return to Baker Street still carrying the cargo he'd promised to deliver. Mary would immediately know that something prevented him from facing Molly. She'd put two and two together and make him talk to her about it. But he didn't want to talk about it. Not with her. Not really with anybody. The only person he wanted to speak to at the moment was dead, and he'd chased off the closest representation.

Taking a deep breath, he grabbed the first box out of the car and set off for the morgue. Sherlock had known Molly's work schedule by heart, but John didn't. He could only hope he wouldn't stumble in and be forced to hand over Sherlock's things to some stranger. Or maybe it would be empty and he could just drop the boxes with a note. That would be best. He wouldn't have to watch Molly's reaction. And she wouldn't have to see him right now, red-eyed and shell-shocked.

But as he walked the all-too-familiar route, he had a feeling he wouldn't get away so easily. He cautiously opened the door, no flamboyantly bursting in like Sherlock and was greeted by the brown-haired pathologist. She startled when she saw him, not used to him coming to visit without a tall, raven-haired figure beside him.

"Oh, John. I didn't expect to see you here," she said.

"Didn't expect to come, honestly," he muttered, picking at the corner of the box in his hand. He stared at the floor, not wanting to raise his gaze to meet Molly's. She didn't ask him 'what's wrong,' which he was thankful for, but he detected concern in the tone of her voice.

"Then why the surprise visit?"

"I—We—We're sorting through the stuff in the flat," he stuttered. "Mrs. Hudson, Mary, and I."

"Oh, that's… good." She didn't know what to say. Who would know what to say when you tell them that you and your mates are cataloguing your dead friend's belongings? John didn't know what to say either. He set the box down on an empty counter and finally worked up the courage to look Molly in the eye.

"This… this is for you," he nodded towards the box. "There's more, but I couldn't carry it all."

"Oh John, I don't have to have anything of his. I know he didn't leave me anything."

"How?"

"Umm, he told me," she hesitated. "The first time."

"Oh."

"Yeah. He told me if it ever happened for real, he wouldn't do that. Because… he figured I'd rather not remember him."

"What? He said that to you?" John was shocked that Sherlock would say something like that. Sure, he often mistreated the pathologist, but it was rather obvious how she felt about him, wasn't it? John shuddered to imagine Sherlock convinced that one of the most important people in his life would prefer to forget him if he died.

"Yes. I told him he was wrong, but he'd stopped listening at that point." A tear ran down her left cheek, proving beyond a doubt that she would not rather forget him. She hastily wiped it away. "But he was always like that. Unconvinced of his own importance. John, when he came to me, the first time, and he told me that you weren't in on it, I tried to change his mind. I tried to tell him, but he wouldn't listen. He kept insisting that you… that you wouldn't care. He thought you'd be better off without him. I don't think he fully understood what he was about to do to you until he was actually up on the roof talking to you on the ground."

John listened raptly while Molly explained this. He was learning more about Sherlock in the week since his death than he had in the years he was alive. Had he really thought that John would simply move on and forget about him? He spent all that time thinking he was replaceable, that John could easily find another best friend—a better best friend. But this was a long time ago. Hopefully, he'd come to comprehend his importance in John's life in the time since his return.

"But afterwards…" Molly continued, more tears silently dripping from her chin. "He was a wreck. Not just with all the fake blood they'd poured on his head, he was falling apart on the inside. He was shaking, so violently I thought he might crack down the middle. And he kept taking his own pulse. He was in shock. I think he spent all that time convincing himself that you'd be fine, that you'd be glad to see the back of him, that when he saw irrefutable proof that you cared, his self-proclaimed sociopathic brain couldn't handle it. John… he loved you. Maybe not in a romantic sense, but whatever you two had was so much more than friendship."

John couldn't help it; he walked up and embraced Molly in a bone-crushing hug. He instantly regretted everything he'd said outside. Sherlock was right, of course he was right, John didn't mean it. Not a single word of it. Because if he'd really ignored Stamford that day, he would have missed out on meeting the greatest detective—the greatest man—to ever walk the Earth. He may have avoided getting nearly killed on countless occasions, but he also wouldn't have had the chance to help solve so many brilliant puzzles and murders, or to meld his very soul with another that so perfectly complemented it.

Before he even registered what he was doing, he confessed. To Molly Hooper of all people, he revealed the secret he'd kept even from Mary. Molly, who'd probably suffered more emotional abuse at the hands of Sherlock Holmes than even John. "I still see him. Sherlock. I don't even know how it works, but he shows up sometimes and talks to me. And sometimes I talk back. Just before I came in here, I broke down and screamed at him. I said so many terrible things, and he went away. And now I'm scared he won't come back."

Molly didn't answer immediately. John knew it was a difficult thing to react to. Molly probably thought it would be a good thing if the illusion didn't reappear to John. He wanted to agree with her, to recognize that he should get used to his friend not being around sooner rather than later, but most of him wanted Sherlock back so desperately that he was willing to accept that version. No other living person could ever come close to attaining Sherlock's brilliance.

When Molly finally spoke, it was to deliver wisdom of which John hadn't known her capable. "If it's what right for you, he'll come back." That most likely meant he was gone forever. If that was the case, John would come to terms with it in his own time. He made a promise to Sherlock that he'd try to move on, and so far he'd failed pretty miserably. Creating an imaginary friend was the furthest possible thing from moving on—it was clinging to the past. He needed to let go.

But first, he needed to let go of Molly. They'd been hugging far longer than was acceptable. John released her and returned his attention to the box he'd brought inside. "Sherlock left everything to me," John explained. "But I've no use for all his science stuff, so we all agreed that we'd bring it here."

"Oh John," Molly smiled. "I don't know what to say." She opened the box and pulled out a beaker. "Are you sure about this?"

"Absolutely."

"Thank you. This is… incredible."

"You're welcome." John watches as she ran her fingers over the rim. "I'll just… go get the rest of it." He left the room and returned to the car, purposefully avoiding looking at the roof or the area around the ambulance station. It took two trips, but he got all the stuff inside. Molly was so grateful she was flustered. John sensed that she would take a moment to herself after he left. John wanted to allow her that, so he bid his goodbyes and let her be alone.

John returned to Baker Street, where Mary greeted him. She brought him upstairs to show him all she'd gotten done while he was gone. Little Rosie was seated in John's armchair, happily playing with her favorite rattle. Mary really had gotten a lot done; all the clutter had been neatly tucked away, and a few more boxes were filled with items. "There's a lot of stuff I don't know what you want to do with, so I just put it all in a box. You can go through it."

John simply nodded. Their living room looked so… different without random papers and things strewn about. It wasn't the same, which was a good thing. It was similar enough to be nostalgic, just what John had been aiming for. "Oh, I almost forgot!" Mary exclaimed. "I had these framed. I thought we could decide together where to put them." She looked around before finding a stack of picture frames which she handed to John. He looked through them, finding the wedding photos he'd selected, but there were more. John vaguely remembered the first photo being taken, it was a press thing Lestrade had practically begged them to do. He and Sherlock stood in front of the door to 221B, both completely straight-faced to the point of looking angry. It looked like a movie poster, but for a pretty bad movie.

The second was one that had been taken by paparazzi and printed in newspapers: Sherlock in the deerstalker hat, peering over his shoulder. It only showed the left side of his face, and his turned-up coat collar obscured his chin and neck. John couldn't help but notice the prominence of his cheekbone and the one piercing blue-green eye that stared out from the photograph. He could feel that gaze looking him up and down and deducing, even though it was just a picture. He decided he liked Mary's choices.

"Where did you get these?" John asked her, gesturing to the extra two photos.

"Mycroft," she replied nonchalantly. That was always answer enough.

"I like them."

"I was hoping you would." John put the picture of him and Sherlock up on the mantel, just to the right of the skull. The others he handed to Mary, who placed them on different shelves where there was space. They looked at each other and nodded in silent agreement. Looking back at the skull, John was reminded of the fact that it was Rosie's. He picked it up, secretly hoping that had just been an attention-getter to make him observe it more closely. He wanted there to be some secret note tucked inside that had been left for him, but he was disappointed on that front. He'd spent too much time playing Moriarty's games. It wasn't always clever. But he still picked up the skull and handed it to his daughter. It wasn't a choking hazard, so he didn't see why she couldn't explore it.

She stared at it for a bit before tossing her rattle to the floor, now occupied by a more exciting toy. It was too big for her to pick up, but she ran her pudgy hands over the surface, sticking her fingers into the eyeholes. Mary glanced over and smiled endearingly. It wasn't every day a baby played with a human skull. John bent down and planted a kiss on Rosie's head. Much to his surprise—and delight—she then pecked the top of the skull as if giving it a kiss. "Molly was really happy to have the chemistry stuff," John blurted out, still watching Rosie play with the cranium.

"Yeah?" Mary responded.

"Yes."

"That's great. Sherlock would want it to be used."

"Yes."

"John, are you okay?" Mary questioned, suddenly concerned.

"Yes," John answered robotically.

"Because it's okay if you're not. You know that, right?"

"Yes." John didn't know why he was so determined to give only one-word answers, but 'yes' was all he could force his mouth to say. He kept thinking about what Molly had said, that his illusion would come back only if it was right for him. He knew it wasn't healthy, but he'd enjoyed talking to it almost as much as the real thing. And he would've loved to see Rosie like this, innocently toying with human remains. It had only been gone a few hours and John was already contemplating if he really wanted what was good for him if this was it. If he could choose whether or not his imaginary friend ever appeared again, he'd almost certainly say yes.


	7. Introspection

Exactly four weeks to the day after the aquarium, John and Mary considered themselves officially moved in. There had been somewhat of a debate over who would take which bedroom, Mary had argued that Rosie might eventually need the privacy of the upstairs as she got older, but John was adamant he wanted his old room back. At least, that's what he said out loud. Mary knew without him having to tell her that he'd never be able to sleep in Sherlock's room.

All the major furniture remained, with the addition of Rosie's crib in the bedroom. Throughout the transition period, they would let Rosie play on the floor of the living room or in one of the armchairs. At first, she only ever sat in John's, but sometimes she would crawl towards Sherlock's when left on the floor. She'd started crawling recently, making John and Mary's jobs as parents infinitely harder. They both noticed the behavior, but John was reluctant to let her up. The chair was practically sacred to Sherlock; it was his thinking place, where he listened to clients and strung together theories to fit the facts. John himself would never sit there, and he didn't think he'd ever let Mary either, but Rosie?

He would allow it. She seemed happier there than in John's. She was also ridiculously attached to the skull. She couldn't ask for it by name, but she knew where it was kept on the mantel. The thing had replaced the rattle as her favorite toy. It was quite amusing. John only wished Sherlock were here to see it.

Sherlock's illusion hadn't appeared to John since his breakdown. John kept expecting—no, hoping, definitely hoping—to see him whenever he stepped through a doorway or rounded a corner, but he remained stubbornly nonexistent. John still hadn't told Mary about him. It remained a secret between him and Molly Hooper. Telling someone about it had made things a little bit easier, and he was glad not to dump that burden on his wife. She had her own grief to deal with. Through his own gloomy haze, John could see she was struggling. Her eyes didn't light up with the same warm glow when she talked to Rosie.

He knew it would take time. Last time, he'd still been clinically depressed by the two year mark. But he wanted to do better this time, to honor Sherlock's last wish for him to live his life. He would go back to work next week; both he and Mary agreed that it would be beneficial for him to be busy now that the move was over. She also suggested he go back to therapy.

He had mixed feelings about this. Would it help? Possibly. Would it hurt like hell to be forced to talk about these things? Definitely. So would it be worth it? John wasn't sure. He'd give it a little longer before he decided. If he elected to go, it wouldn't be back to Ella. He remembered the first time he went back to her after the fake suicide. Outside, torrential rain; inside, palpable tension between him and the woman he was supposed to be opening up to. He couldn't even get the words out, but she just pushed and pushed until he managed to choke it out. She wasn't a bad therapist, just not a great match for John.

That night wasn't the first night they'd slept at Baker Street together, the three of them, but it felt significant—meaning John couldn't sleep a wink. He lay awake for hours before he gave up trying and wandered down to the living room. He poured himself a glass of water and sat in his chair, staring at the empty space where Sherlock's violin had laid. Of all the objects in the house, he'd deliberated over this one the most.

He couldn't get rid of it. That was absolutely out of the question. Sherlock had treated the instrument like a child or a lover, and to know that John had given it away would have him rolling over in his grave. But neither John nor Mary played, and it would be strange to leave it sitting out to collect dust. Plus, John knew anyone who visited would inevitably ask, "You play?" and he would be forced to retell the story. Also not an enticing option.

Sherlock had actually tried to teach John one time, but his shoulder had protested the position. He also hadn't wanted to embarrass himself in front of such a proficient musician. In the end, he and Mary decided to put it in its case and tuck it away in the closet. It wasn't ideal, but it was the best conceivable option.

Now, the space on the table looked conspicuously empty. John took another sip of water and finally pried his eyes away from it. Maybe Rosie would learn how to play and could inherit the instrument when she grew big enough to use it. John struggled to imagine his daughter grown up. Most parents did. But every year Rosie aged would be another year spent without Sherlock. To say the least, he wasn't necessarily looking forward to it.

Eventually, he managed to fall asleep in his armchair. It wasn't restful, by any means, nightmares plaguing him all night, but it was better than nothing. Mary found him with his chin on his chest the next morning and woke him up. He spent the next half hour trying to massage the kink out of his cervical vertebrae after spending so long in that position. Around nine o'clock Mrs. Hudson came upstairs looking awfully excited. John's curiosity was piqued. He picked up Rosie and watched as she plopped something down on the couch. He looked at it inquisitively, but Mrs. Hudson told him not to spoil the surprise.

"John, Mary, I've something to show you," she announced. "John, you might remember I gave something to Mrs. Turner a while ago, and now I will return it as a kind of housewarming gift." She took the lump of whatever-it-was from the sofa and spread it out. John had completely forgotten about giving her these, and he was utterly blown away by the final product. Sherlock's scarves had been turned into a gorgeous quilt.

John placed Rosie back on the floor so he could run both his hands over the fabric. It was magnificent, the seams between the separate scarves practically invisible. "It's… perfect," John muttered. He wasn't exaggerating. There was literally no better way to keep a piece of Sherlock alive. The detective would probably hate the quilt for its sentimentality, but John was never averse to the emotion Sherlock had so despised.

"You like it?" Mrs. Hudson sounded relieved. Maybe she'd feared it would sadden him.

"Absolutely. I love it," he replied, giving her a hug.

"Mrs. Hudson, this is wonderful," Mary added.

"Oh, I'm so glad! I thought it would be a nice touch." She smiled, said hello to Rosie, and bustled back downstairs. John turned to Mary and grinned the first genuine smile he had in weeks.

"She really is the best landlady in the world," Mary remarked.

"Yeah, she's great," John replied. "And apparently Mrs. Turner next door is a wizard with a needle and thread."

"Have you ever met her tenants?" Mary asked. "The 'married ones' she's always on about?"

"No. I don't think they like us very much," John sighed. "Liked us," he corrected.

"Oh, I'm sure that's not true."

"Either that or they were recluses."

"John, your next door neighbors are not recluses."

"It's probably safer if they are. Not too long ago, four assassins moved in around here."

"Now there are five," Mary chuckled. John couldn't help but laugh too, even though her math was wrong. Two of them had died after protecting Sherlock, and the other two had moved away after the Moriarty scandal.

"No, they all left. Baker Street's assassin count is firmly planted at one. Still more than is generally acceptable for a residential street."

"Well, let's call it a half since I'm retired."

Discussion of her previous career was surprisingly commonplace given how drastically it had impacted their lives. It was an irrevocable part of her, like John's military past was a part of him. Sometimes it was cathartic to make light of it. "Okay, half," John agreed. He took a step closer and took her hands in his. "Thank you for being there."

"John, please don't thank me. I don't deserve your gratitude," she said. He thought about everything he still hadn't told her, all that he was keeping from her. Not just regarding the Sherlock illusion, but the woman on the bus too. He'd pushed memories of her to the back of his mind when Sherlock died, but now they were starting to resurface. Nothing serious had become of it—he'd broken it off himself—but he still wondered how far it would've gone if he hadn't done so.

Frankly, he still wondered why he'd reciprocated at all. He loved Mary despite all of her flaws, and he wasn't looking for anything that she couldn't give him. Yet he'd still texted another woman, had led her on before eventually putting a stop to it. He was unfaithful. If Mary had skills like Sherlock's, she would've already deduced what he'd done. Thankfully, her skill set didn't extend to reading an affair in the fold of his collar or the way he laced his shoes.

"Yes, you do," John told her. "I would imagine how this would've gone without you, but I don't have to imagine. I would see little reason to get out of bed in the morning. And when I finally did, it was only to pour another whiskey. Without you, no doubt I would be in a similar situation now. Last time, meeting you pulled me out of that funk. This time, you've kept me out of it entirely. So I do thank you." It was true that Mary's presence had prevented him from turning to alcohol to dull the pain, but he was definitely in different sort of funk. And he saw no way out.

"I'm so sorry you had to do this twice, John," she said, squeezing his hands even tighter. "It's not fair."

No, it's really not, John thought. But he'd learned long ago to give up all hope of fairness. However, his luck did seem to be particularly rotten. Hopefully, that wasn't hereditary and Rosie would be spared his curse—and his apparent attraction to dangerous situations and people. That was not a trait a father wanted to see in his daughter. But she'd already taken a liking to a human skull, so he shouldn't hold out too much hope.

Mary released her grip and picked up Rosie. "I think we're going to go for a walk since it's such a nice day out," she said, and Rosie squirmed eagerly. "Do you want to come?"

"No thanks," John replied. He picked up the skull from where Rosie left it on the floor and replaced it on the mantel. The weather had no right to be lovely right now, and he didn't deserve to enjoy it. But as soon as he heard the door close and knew he was alone, his mood plummeted. It was easier to keep up the illusion that he was okay when he had an audience that needed convincing. When he was alone, however, the hollow, empty feeling was harder to keep at bay.

"I've met Mrs. Turner's married ones."

John hadn't heard the voice in weeks. He thought it vanished forever after he shouted abuse at it in front of Bart's. But John's subconscious clearly wasn't done tantalizing him.

"Why did you come back?" John asked the figure standing behind the black armchair.

"To be frank… I don't know," he replied. "Which means you don't know either. But would you care to hazard a guess?"

"No. Whenever I try to guess things about you, I regret it. You're an unsolvable enigma, and trying to figure you out just stresses me."

"Did you ever consider just asking?"

"You would've immediately shut me down."

"You know that for certain?"

"You hate sentiment. And talking about yourself like that. You try to ignore things into nonexistence."

"Do I?"

"Yes, you do. Or you did." Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Stop making me question it, because it's too late to do anything," John growled.

"Is it?"

"Stop rephrasing everything I say into a bloody question! If you have something to say to me, please go ahead. Quit beating around the bush."

"You said that I tried to ignore things into nonexistence. I'm not sure you were referring to me."

"What—you think I'm ignoring something?" Sherlock's apparition nodded. "And what exactly am I ignoring?"

"Do you need me to tell you that?"

"Yes, actually. I do," John snapped. "And I asked you to stop asking stupid questions."

"There are no stupid questions. Just questions you don't want the answer to."

"Are you like the stereotypical wise wizard now? Can you only speak in riddles?" John's frustration was building, and he was one witty remark away from attempting to strangle Sherlock.

"They do say that your word is worth more after your death. Lot of good that did me last time; people still thought I was a fraud."

"I never did."

"I know. Even though I wanted you to believe it. But that doesn't matter now, it's in the past. We're off topic. I cannot only speak in riddles, how annoying would that be? I just think this advice is worth more if you speak it aloud yourself. I'll ask again: who's really ignoring things here?"

John knew what answer he wanted, but he still didn't want to say it aloud. To speak it would be to confirm it, to avow it. And while he knew it was true, he didn't want it to be. He was shoving his own anguish aside for Mary and Rosie's sake. If he kept tamping it down, it would fester, grow stronger, and arise with a vengeance when he inevitably let his guard down. That's exactly what happened last time. He'd pushed his grief down to make room for Mary, but it never evaporated. Sherlock's miraculous return had been all the catalyst he needed to uncap that bottle, and the detective had taken the brunt of the explosion—literally. John still remembered hearing the crunch of Sherlock's nose when he head-butted him. But there could be no human outlet this time, because the only people he saw regularly were Mary, Mrs. Hudson, and Rosie, and the repercussions if he lashed out at one of them would be much more severe.

Finally, John sighed knowingly, "I'm ignoring."

"Brilliant. Acknowledging the problem is the first step."

"First step in what?"

"Getting better," Sherlock chirped. "Moving on."

"Maybe I don't want to move on. I have you, and you're so close to the real thing that right now it feels like I never lost you, and if I do move on you'll go away and then I'll never be able to talk to you again or hear your voice and I don't—" John was rambling, but he feared if he closed his mouth and stopped talking for even a second that Sherlock would disappear, this time really forever.

"But you promised." Sherlock looked at him so earnestly John felt his heart sink several inches lower in his chest. Sherlock was disappointed—disappointed that John had so far failed to keep the promise he'd requested with his dying breaths. This Sherlock was a part of John's own brain, but he knew that the real Sherlock was equally upset with him, wherever he was. He needed to fix that.

John grabbed his laptop and opened it, sitting down in his armchair. Sherlock sat across from him with his legs crossed and hands steepled, watching intently. John sighed and began searching for a new therapist.

~0~

He managed to get an appointment for two days later. It would be good to have at least one session under his belt before he returned to work. He didn't tell Mary about it, instead made up some lame excuse for where he would be for the next couple hours. He hadn't been able to sleep in his room for either of those nights, moving to the living room in the early hours of the morning. He would curl up on the couch with the quilt of Sherlock's scarves, and then he managed a few restless hours. Was it a bad sign that he slept better with a relic of his late friend than he did with his living wife? Maybe.

When he walked into the therapist's room, he wished he'd taken more time to prepare himself. The last time he came to a place like this was actually for what he called a 'top-up,' about three months after Sherlock's return. Afterwards, he hadn't felt the need to go back. He was recently married with a child on the way; he was happy. Being back here reminded him that was no longer the case.

The therapist introduced himself as Scott, and John internally cringed, remembering that was Sherlock's second middle name. It was not a good omen that he was caught off guard this early in the session. He managed to shake the man's hand without trembling and introduce himself without stuttering, and then sat down in the chair across from him. Sherlock's illusion had followed him the entire way here, albeit silently, but he took up a post behind Scott in John's peripheral vision.

"I know you filled out a preliminary questionnaire before coming, but I always like to hear it directly from my patients' lips. Why are you here?" Scott inquired.

Why did he ask a question he knew the answer to? Ella had asked him the same thing after Sherlock's suicide. John had asked her if she read the news and insisted that she didn't need him to tell her why. She'd made him do it anyway. He considered using the same approach this time, but figured he'd be coerced into spitting it out in the end no matter what he did. He sighed and devised the least specific way to say it:

"I… lost a friend," he stammered. It wasn't a lie, but not the whole truth either. He'd lost friends before in Afghanistan, but none of those losses had driven him to such a state. Both Sherlock and Scott stared at him, urging him to elaborate. "My best friend, Sherlock Holmes," he amended. "He was… he was murdered."

There. He said it. Happy now?

"I'm sorry," Scott said. "That's a hard thing to come to terms with."

"Well, I ended up here, so I can't argue with you on that."

"John, you didn't 'end up' here. You chose to come here, which means you want to improve. That's an important distinction."

"Yeah, well…" John glanced at Sherlock in the corner. "He kinda made me promise to move on and live my life, and I don't want to let him down." Sherlock's illusion smiled.

"When did he have you promise this?" Scott asked.

"At—at the end," John mumbled, hoping he wouldn't have to elaborate. John noticed Scott tense up ever so slightly. He'd probably never had a patient like this before, a man whose best friend died in his arms from a bullet wound to the chest.

"You were there when it happened?"

"Yes. He's a detective, and I follow him and catalogue his cases. Or, I used to do that. On the last case, the culprit surprised him. My wife was there too, she saw it all. I was almost too late, I had to get someone to look after our daughter before I ran off, but I got there in time. He made me promise to go on. It was the last thing he said." John surprised himself by divulging this information so willingly, but when he started describing the incident the words just fell out of his mouth.

Scott's eyes widened ever so slightly. He was good at disguising his emotions, but not good enough to fool John, whose observational skills had been honed by years living with Sherlock. He was probably realizing how emotionally fucked up John was after such an ordeal. This would not be an in-and-out deal—not that John had expected it to be. He scribbled something down on a clipboard and John had to try not to strain to deduce what he'd written.

"You said you used to catalogue his cases. What exactly does that entail?"

"I blogged about them."

"That sounds like a strictly business relationship, but I'm clearly missing something."

"We were flatmates for years."

"And you moved out when you married your wife?"

"Well, no. I moved out when he died."

"You lived with him up until very recently?"

"No. It's… complicated. I don't really want to talk about it," John admitted. He looked at Sherlock in the corner and idly rubbed the back of his neck. He was already emotionally drained and bringing the fake suicide into this would be too much for one session. "It's all on my blog, you can read what happened there."

"I think it'd be more beneficial for both of us if you told me directly," Scott said.

"I'm sorry, I don't think I can. Not today."

"That's okay. I'll tell you what: I will read your blog before our next session and get caught up if you do something for me."

"I didn't realize there'd be homework," John chuckled halfheartedly.

"Well, just like school, there's only so much you can get done in this room. You need to practice at home too. Now, this blog of yours, when was the last time you wrote for it?"

"A few weeks before my wedding I wrote up a case. The most recent post on there is actually Sherlock writing about the wedding for me while I was on honeymoon."

"I want you to write another one."

"What?" Scott's request didn't make any sense to John. There were no more cases to write up, so how was he supposed to blog?

"I want you to write another blog post."

"About?"

"About Sherlock. The people reading the blog need to know what happened."

"They all watch the news, they know exactly what happened," John defended.

"That may be true, but I'm sure they want to hear from you. And I think it would help you too. Consider it a eulogy of sorts."

John thought about this for a moment before asking, "Aren't you supposed to be helping me to move on? Instead you're asking me to relive it, and then publish it."

"I'm not asking you to relive it. I don't want you to write a screenplay of what happened or anything like that," Scott assured. He drummed his pen on his clipboard for a moment. "How do I put this? Think farewell letter. It will help you come to terms with the conclusion of this chapter of your life. Does that make sense?"

"I guess," John mumbled. Actually, it made a lot of sense. John was unable to turn the page to the next chapter. The evidence of that inability stood in this very room, watching John silently. Sherlock nodded knowingly at John when he accepted Scott's homework assignment.

"Good," Scott said. "I'll see you soon, John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why do I put a sentimental quilt in almost all my major works? I honestly don't know, I think I just have a thing for them.


	8. Commiseration

The End of an Era:

I know it's been a while, but I think I owe it to readers not to abandon this blog without at least explaining why. Some of this may be public knowledge already, but just in case it's not, I'll outline what happened. Here goes:

Sherlock Holmes is dead. For real this time. I saw it happen, no chance for tricks. I can't name names, but he was murdered by someone involved in the case he was working on. Shot in the chest. I was there in his last moments, but that wasn't nearly enough time for a proper goodbye. I guess this blog post is partially to make up for that, to say the farewell I didn't get to say in person. I hope wherever he is, he somehow catches wind of this message and gets to read it. I know he's not undercover in some other country, not this time, but I still like to think of him as being somewhere.

I miss you Sherlock. Life without you is rather boring. But it's not just the excitement of chasing criminals with you that I miss, it's everything. Except maybe how often you nearly got yourself killed. The stress of all that probably made me go grey early. I miss walking into 221B to the sound of your violin. It sits in the closet now because I can't bear to look at it every day. I miss how you always knew what I was thinking, and how I could at least tell when you were thinking, if not what. I miss you allowing me to monitor your comments and timing with victims and family members on cases. I miss how vehemently you denied partaking in sentiment when almost everything you did made it obvious how much you cared. I even find myself missing the weird experiments in the fridge, believe it or not.

Last time this happened I told you that you were the best and most human man I've ever known. That doesn't even begin to cover it. I was half a person until I met you. Some people have told me that you were too, and that we completed each other like no other pair of friends they'd ever seen. It must be true, because I never felt more fulfilled than when I was with you. Forgive me for waxing poetic, but you were the ice to my fire. If I'm being honest, I'm a little lost right now, without you. But I made a promise to you, and I'm nothing if not a man of my word. I'm trying to move forward, and I think I'm finally making progress. I'm taking baby steps, but at least they're carrying me in the right direction.

But no matter how far I get, I'll never forget you. I could never simply 'delete' things the way you could. Not that I'd ever want to delete my memories of you. I wouldn't trade our time together for anything. I hope you feel the same way. And I hope you were able to leave this world with few regrets or unfulfilled goals. While I have many of both, I still have time to fix that. If I can live the rest of my life in a way that would make you proud, I will not have wasted it. Thank you for being the best friend a man could ask for, and more,

—John Watson

~0~

He wrote draft after draft after draft of that final blog post until he was satisfied. By this point, he'd told Mary about his new therapist and his homework assignment. She was understandably supportive and requested to read what he'd written. He wasn't finished when she asked this, so he declined. She would only get to see the version that would be published on the blog. As he typed, he questioned whether every sentence was too personal or too aloof. Some of the things he wrote seemed far too close to a love confession when he went back to reread them, so he changed his phrasing again and again and again.

It was a struggle because his relationship with Sherlock went far deeper than words alone could convey. The two of them could communicate with sideways glances, quirky smiles, and nearly imperceptible changes in posturing. There wasn't even a word in the English language to describe what they were, because they were infinitely more than friends or even best friends. They were two halves of the same whole, and John now had to learn to live without. He was almost jealous of Sherlock, since he didn't have to endure as a missing piece of a greater entirety.

The Monday after his first meeting with Scott and John still hadn't slept a single night in his bed with Mary. Every night he crept downstairs to instead curl up with the quilt. Even with it, he slept fitfully. Before he met Sherlock, nightmares had been a nightly occurrence. Their frequency had dwindled as their friendship grew, but now they were back full force. Only now his subconscious had new material to play with. Mary found him on the couch every morning, and she obviously understood the pattern. Yet she didn't say a word. Maybe she was waiting for John to bring the quilt upstairs to their room. It seemed a logical thing to do, but for whatever reason John couldn't bring himself to try it. It somehow seemed intrusive.

He awoke that Monday morning on the couch with a sense of dread lingering in the back of his head. He would go back to work today. He was eager for something to keep him busy, but he also wasn't sure he could handle listening to ordinary people gripe about their ordinary problems. He liked listening to potential clients describe their mysteries, and watching Sherlock take in the information and weave a theory out of it before their eyes. But he couldn't live in this limbo forever, so he had to go back. The longer he waited, the harder it would be.

His coworkers greeted him with palpable awkwardness. He wondered how much they knew of what had transpired. John hadn't been the one to request leave in the first place; Mary (and probably Mycroft) handled it without him needing to lift a finger. At least they seemed glad to have him back. He knew things got hectic when they were short staffed.

He easily coasted through the majority of the workday. Here, he was able to focus on the patients and their needs instead of his own maelstrom of issues. Most patients didn't even acknowledge his hiatus, and those that did simply expressed that they were glad to have him back. Only one dared to address what had kept him so long. John had seen Mr. Holder many times before, and their conversations often drifted away from strictly medical topics. He knew all about John's side job as Sherlock's assistant/blogger.

"I was so sorry to hear about Mr. Holmes," he said towards the end of the appointment. John was taken aback. "It's such a shame."

"Yeah, it is," John managed to stutter.

"He was such an asset to the police." John had barely even thought of this aspect of Sherlock's death. Lestrade and the others had lost their consulting detective. Who would they turn to with all the cases they couldn't solve? All the clever criminals would remain at large without Sherlock to pick up on their trails. John feared for London's safety, and for Greg Lestrade's sanity.

Thinking about Greg, John realized he hadn't spoken to him since the aquarium beyond a rushed greeting at the funeral. After all this time, he hadn't stopped to think for even a moment about the DI and how much he must be struggling. Not just because Sherlock had helped him with work, but because he was also a close friend. John immediately felt guilty for not reaching out sooner, and told himself he'd try to meet up with him as soon as possible.

"You alright Dr. Watson?" Mr. Holder asked. John didn't even realize he'd zoned out.

"What? Sorry, just got lost in thought for a second. Do you need anything else?"

"No. Thank you."

After Mr. Holder left, John checked his schedule and was relieved to find he had no more patients for the day. Checking the time, he found it was far earlier than he'd ever gotten off work before. They probably kept his load light for his first day back, something he was thankful for. He was already drained of energy, not used to so much activity and brainwork in his four weeks away.

He texted Greg, "Sorry I've been a stranger lately. Want to meet up soon?" He replied much quicker than John expected, and said he was free tomorrow evening unless someone decided to commit murder in the next twenty four hours. John chuckled and responded affirmatively. He packed up his things and returned home to Baker Street.

"How was your first day back?" Mary asked after greeting him with a gentle kiss.

"Mundane," John replied.

"Isn't that what you wanted it to be?"

"Absolutely." He heard Rosie squeal and followed the sound into the living room to say hello to her. He swore she'd grown since he left that morning. He still remembered the tiny newborn she'd been not too long ago. He sat on the floor next to her and helped her stack the colored rings she'd been playing with while he explained his plans to Mary. "I'm going out with Greg tomorrow night."

"That's great! You haven't seen him in ages," she said.

"You're right, I haven't. I was talking to a patient today when I realized just how long it had been. It'll be good to catch up, to see how he's doing after everything," John explained. "Hopefully he's fared better than I have."

"John, you're doing alright," Mary assured. "Writing that blog post was a big first step."

"Did you read it?" John had put the post up the evening before and hadn't looked at the blog since.

"Yes. It was beautiful, John. Every word of it. Have you looked at any comments?"

"Not yet. Have you?"

"I scrolled through a couple, but there were too many."

"Really?" John didn't expect a large volume of people to respond to his outpouring of grief. Curiosity piqued, he opened up his laptop and checked the comments on the latest blog post. Sure enough, there were easily hundreds of them, ranging in length from a sentence fragment to a three-paragraph essay. He'd never be able to muster the patience to go through all of them, but as he scanned he got the general message: people were devastated.

It wasn't just his immediate friends that would miss Sherlock dearly. Apparently everyone in the country had something to say. Some comments were from victims and relatives of previous cases, thanking Sherlock one last time for what he did for them. Others were from avid fans who wanted to dedicate their lives to detective work due to Sherlock's influence. Sherlock would laugh at that, the idea that amateurs could do anything worthwhile in the field of criminal detection. For a while, John just sat and scrolled down the feed, silently marveling at the sheer volume of comments and the fact that the positive ones weren't intermixed with even a single negative one calling Sherlock a fraud who deserved what he got.

"Your godfather really was amazing, Rosie," John addressed his daughter. She looked up when she heard him speak, and smiled. John loved her smiles. "I can't wait to tell you all about him."

The three of them had a quiet evening in. After tucking Rosie into bed, John read a book on the sofa with Mary opposite him. John brought Sherlock's quilt upstairs with him when he went to bed. For the first time in a long time he slept peacefully through the entire night.

~0~

After another unremarkable day at work, John met Lestrade at their usual pub. They'd done this many times before, always without Sherlock because he saw no purpose to it. It felt painfully normal to be sitting there with the Detective Inspector. John almost believed that Sherlock would be waiting for him back at Baker Street to mock him for engaging in frivolous social pleasantries.

"How've you been?" John asked first, knowing the same question was on Greg's mind.

"Alright, I suppose. You?"

John decided to be completely honest instead of putting up a façade. "Not so great. But better than last time. I won't let myself go there because I have Mary and Rosie to take care of."

"That's great. It's almost a blessing that we've had practice with this sort of thing. Almost like he gave us a trial run so we could get it right this time."

"Almost."

"What have you been doing since… you know. You said you only went back to work yesterday."

"Mary, Mrs. Hudson and I went through all his things at Baker Street. We got rid of a lot of stuff, but the flat still feels like his." John noticed that Lestrade looked a bit concerned at that comment, so he corrected himself, "Which is how I want it to feel. Mycroft gave me the option of moving there with Mary and Rosie, and I said yes. Because if I didn't, some normal bloke would move in and change everything."

"And are you okay living there?" Lestrade questioned. He knew that last time John had only lasted a day or so before declaring he had to move out.

"Yes. Mary and I are upstairs in my old room and Rosie's in Sherlock's. Mostly it looks the same, but we have cleaned it up and childproofed it a bit. No toxic chemicals lying around or specimens in the fridge. And I had to put the violin away in a closet."

"You're keeping it?"

"Yes. I have to. It feels intrinsically wrong to give it away. Plus there's always a chance that Rosie will take a liking to the instrument, and it'd be great for her to be able to play it. Oh, and Mary got a couple pictures framed to put up in the living room. Those are a nice touch."

"Yeah, which ones?"

"Some from the wedding, and that one of him in the hat that ended up in the papers."

"She had that framed?"

"Yes. We didn't have that many options. Sherlock hated to be photographed. For a while I was convinced he was a vampire afraid of being found out when he didn't show up in the picture." This comment elicited a dry chuckle from both men before John continued. "We gave all his chemistry stuff to Molly. She seemed to appreciate that. But I should've known that I would discover something I didn't want to know when I went digging around his stuff."

"What'd you find?" Lestrade sounded both interested and concerned.

"Sertraline, which is a prescription medication for anxiety. Did you know anything about that?"

"No. I was honestly expecting you to say cocaine when you said there was something you'd rather not find."

"That's what I feared I would find. Somehow this is worse. I had no idea."

"Well, you know what he's like. He hated to admit weakness. He probably didn't want your worrying or your pity."

"You're right, but I can't help but feel a little bit betrayed. And I'm a bloody doctor, I should've noticed!"

"This is the man who pretended to be in love with a woman for months just to break into her boss's office. He could easily disguise this. John, you're not the first to be fooled by Sherlock Holmes."

"You're right. I just need to beat myself up about something."

"Well, stop it. It's not your fault. None of this is. Let's change the subject, shall we? How's Rosie?"

"She's doing great. Know what her new favorite toy is?" John smiled at the mental image of his daughter.

"She steal your stethoscope or something?" Greg asked jokingly.

"No, although I doubt it'll be long before she starts getting into things. She actually loves playing with the skull."

"The skull? The one on the mantel?"

"Yes. Strangely, Sherlock left it specifically to her in his will."

"He left a human skull to a baby? I'd say I don't believe it, but it's Sherlock. Wouldn't be the strangest thing he's ever done."

"No. But it's almost like he knew something, you know? Why would he change his will in the few months since she was born?"

"I don't know, John. He insisted he wasn't psychic, but we all had doubts." They fell into awkward silence for a few moments before Lestrade spoke up again. "I saw your blog. Had me tearing up a bit."

"Really?" John had never seen Lestrade cry before, and the idea that reading John's prose could make the DI emotional was foreign.

"Yeah. What possessed you to write again? You haven't posted since before the wedding."

"I got a new therapist, and he told me to write a goodbye letter on the blog."

"A new therapist. He any good?"

"I've only seen him once, but I think so. Writing that blog did help. I'm going again in two days."

"Good for you. Sometimes I wish I had the time to spare to do something like that," Lestrade sighed. This comment struck a chord with John. The DI was letting on the he thought he'd benefit from therapy. John decided to offer his assistance.

"I'm no therapist, but if there's anything you need to talk about… I'm here. You clearly have free time right now," John said hesitantly.

"No, I couldn't dump all that on you."

"Don't worry about me."

"You sure?"

"One hundred percent," John stated. Twenty percent, he thought.

"As long as I've known him, a part of me knew that it would probably end like this, what with all the criminals he chased and antagonized—either that or an overdose. And in my line of work, I see violence like this every day, so it rarely bothers me. But I just can't get the image out of my head."

"Greg, do you think you're blaming yourself?" John asked earnestly.

"I don't know, maybe? She trained a gun on him, and I told her to 'be sensible.' Of all the things I could've said, I chose 'be sensible.' If I'd said something else, something more convincing, maybe she wouldn't have done it."

"Nothing you said or did could've changed her course of action. She was hell-bent on getting her hands dirty."

"I know, but it was an almost textbook hostage situation."

"Sherlock Holmes has never done anything by the book. But the important thing is she's behind bars now. She won't endanger any more lives. You and your men made sure of that."

"Okay," Lestrade sighed. "I just miss him," the DI admitted. "I keep checking my phone waiting to hear from him begging to be let on a case."

"I know. I miss him too. But he wouldn't want you to whine about it, he'd want you to step up your game and solve them yourself."

"You think so?"

"He always had you take the credit anyway. Now you'll have to earn it."

Lestrade didn't reply, just sighed heavily. Both men felt a weight lifted off their chests after discussing such a difficult topic. John wasn't sure how it happened, but next thing he knew they were at the cemetery. There had been no verbal communication; they intrinsically knew this was how their evening should end. John hadn't visited since the burial, but he didn't know about Greg. The headstone was practically identical to the previous one, the only difference being the date of death. It was still much too close to the date of birth, too few years between them.

The two men stood there in silence, not knowing what to say. John half expected his Sherlock illusion to pay a visit, but maybe there was an unspoken rule about how close to the real Sherlock he could get. How long they stayed, John didn't know, but it was Lestrade to eventually suggest they leave. He hadn't spoken aloud to the grave, but John could tell by the look in his eyes that he'd said what he needed to say.


	9. Progression

"I read your blog," Scott prompted without introduction.

"All of it?" John asked. The therapist nodded. John tried to deduce what he was thinking, but it was impossible to tell. He'd never be able to read people like Sherlock could. "I did my homework," John added.

"Yes, I saw that one too. Do you think it was helpful?"

"Yes."

"Excellent. Now, I would like to bring up the fact that this isn't your first rodeo, so to speak."

"You've never had a patient who grieved the same person twice, I'll bet," John huffed.

"Not in such a literal sense, no. I must admit you are unique in that respect. And from what I read, Mr. Sherlock Holmes was quite a unique individual."

"That's an understatement."

"Well, the situation gives me a new angle from which to approach. I'd like you to tell me if you feel differently about the two incidents, and how."

John had thought about this himself on several occasions, so coming up with an answer didn't require a long time. He quickly explained, "Well, the first was a suicide and the second was a murder, there are some blatantly obvious differences just based on that. I think I was more angry at myself the first time because I literally lived with him every day and didn't notice he was on that path. This time I'm not so much angry at myself but at the outside forces that led to his death. But then it's also worse this time because he didn't want to die, when the first time he did. Or at least, he wanted everyone including me to believe that he wanted to."

"I'm not necessarily asking which is worse, just how the two instances are different and how your reactions were different. Did you seek therapy after last time?"

"Yes. I already had a therapist before I met Sherlock to deal with all the Afghanistan stuff, and I went back to her. She didn't help me all that much."

"So what did you do?"

"Drink. I won't hesitate to admit that I was a bit of a mess. A couple times I considered following him off that building… but then I met my wife and she managed to turn me around. And then he came back from the dead and sealed the deal."

"When he came back, did you immediately accept him back into your life?"

"No. Hell, no. I was pissed. He had this whole elaborate plot that he conveniently left me out of, and then he just came waltzing in and ruined my proposal. I actually beat him up, I was so mad. But then there was the incident with the bomb and I had to forgive him. I think I was happy he was back the whole time, but it was masked by a sense of betrayal, you know? He was my best friend, but clearly he didn't hold me in the same regard if he did something like that."

"Did you tell him this?"

"Not really. Not in the immediate aftermath. But I did tell him that I forgave him. And he eventually understood that he was my best friend." John remembered Sherlock's utter incomprehension when he first asked him to be best man. He honestly hadn't thought he was John's best friend. The notion that he drastically underestimated his own importance was nearly as heartbreaking as his demise.

"That's good," Scott said. "But do you think there is anything that was left unsaid between you? A lot of people have thoughts they held on to and regret not sharing now that the opportunity has passed." John wasn't expecting this line of inquiry. It was somewhat similar to Ella's, "the things you wanted to say but never did, say it now," which John hadn't been able to answer until that visit to Sherlock's grave. This time there had been no dramatic speech, no confession of admiration and loyalty. He honestly wasn't sure if there was anything he hadn't said; the two of them had more than their fair share of heart-to-hearts in the course of their dramatic lives.

"I don't think so," John admitted. If Scott had asked him if there was anything he'd yet to say to Mary, then that would be another story. He had plenty of secrets he'd kept from her, but she'd kept some pretty life-altering ones herself, so he didn't feel all that guilty. John then added, "But I know that as life goes on, and my daughter grows up, there are so many things I'm going to want to tell him but won't be able to." Of course John could tell the Sherlock illusion these important things, but he wasn't ready to reveal his existence to Scott.

"Unfortunately, that's true. That's one of the hardest things to come to terms with when it comes to grief, is simply the lack of the person in your life. What are some ways you could cope with that absence?"

I could conjure up a mental image of him so powerful and lifelike that I can literally feel him breathing down my neck when he stands close by. He didn't say it aloud, but the concept still sounded utterly ridiculous. Yet that's exactly what had happened. That very figure stood on the outskirts of John's peripheral vision, as he'd done the previous session. "I don't know," John confessed again. "Isn't that what you're supposed to tell me?"

"Well, yes, but you know yourself better than I ever will."

"I could keep writing the blog," he blurted out. Where the idea came from, he had no clue. But he liked it. "More messages like the one you had me write, as if he can read them."

"I think that's a wonderful idea."

"But I don't think I would publish them."

"No, of course not. Nobody would expect you too. The one before was also to inform the public, any future ones are just for you."

"Yeah, I'd like that."

~0~

Dear Sherlock,

Rosie said her first word today. I think you'd be awfully proud of what she said: 'dull.' Of course, she didn't mean it. She was trying to say 'skull,' but she obviously can't pronounce that. Still, it was rather amusing. And I still can't believe you left a human skull to an infant. But she's rarely apart from it. I'm waiting for the day she gives it a name and a backstory. Most little girls play with dolls, but Rosie is no ordinary little girl. Her genes are certainly an interesting mix, coming from an army doctor and an assassin. And though she only knew you for a few months, she is every bit your goddaughter, already insatiably curious. It probably doesn't help that I've been reading my early blog posts to her as bedtime stories. She loves a Study in Pink.

I look forward to when she's old enough to actually understand it, when she'll learn what her godfather did and brag to her friends about him. Even if you're not here in person, you're all over 221B. The place is practically a Sherlock Holmes museum. Not just the pictures of you we had framed, but your yellow spray-painted smiley face, bullet holes in the wall, and your scarves are all still here. I don't know if I told you, but Mrs. Turner next door made them into a quilt. A quilt I can't sleep without. You would probably find that grossly sentimental. It probably is, but I'd rather be sentimental than sleep-deprived.

This is just the first of what will inevitably be many letters to you. My therapist told me to come up with a method to cope with your absence, and this was the first thing that came to mind. He thought it was a decent idea. I'm not going to publish this message on the blog or anything; in fact, I'll probably delete it when I'm finished. But I can already tell that it's helping. If you were still alive, I'd be coming to visit every so often to catch you up on everything that's happened lately. As it is, I'm still updating you and everything, just not in person. This is better than speaking to your gravestone. I've only been to the cemetery twice, once at your funeral and once with Lestrade, but neither time did I feel your presence there. After the fake suicide, I did feel you there. Maybe that was because you were actually there, hiding behind a bush or whatever. Nowadays, I feel you in Baker Street, though your chair remains empty.

—John

~0~

John didn't write that first letter to Sherlock until four months after he shared the idea with Scott. Many times he wanted to write, but had nothing of consequence to declare. It was one thing to share important events with the deceased; it was another to ramble about nonsense. Scott had ensured John knew this. It would be unhealthy if he spent too much time typing out letters to a man who would never read them.

Those four months passed monotonously. John went to work, tried to hide his disgust for people who griped to him about such inconsequential problems, went home to Rosie, and met with Scott every week. Sherlock's illusion always joined him in therapy, lurking on the other side of the room, though he never ventured with John to work. Too many 'ordinary' people around. Despite the apparition's omnipresence, John still hadn't told either Mary or Scott about him.

Rosie knew, though of course she didn't understand the implications of her father having conversations with empty space. Sherlock almost always materialized when Mary was out of the house. He understood it was easier for John to talk to him without having to hide from his wife. On many occasions, Rosie listened eagerly as her father spoke to somebody she couldn't see while her mother was out on an errand. Thankfully, she was still too young to retain these memories of him.

Both Mary and John were there to see her utter that first word, and both parents' hearts soared with elation. Rosie had been babbling incomprehensibly for a while now, and it was only a matter of time before she started voicing her needs more accurately. When she finally squeaked, "dull," Mary and John met each others' gaze, wishing a certain someone was here to witness it. His reaction would have been priceless.

John once read that the first year after a loss is the hardest, that each subsequent year gets progressively easier. The first three hundred sixty five days are full of firsts: the first Christmas without them, the first time their birthday passes without them around to celebrate it, and, in John's case, the first major crime to make the news that they're not around to solve. However, if last time was anything to go by, that notion that the first year is the worst was absurd. If anything, everything got infinitely harder after the first year.

It was acceptable to be grieving during the first year, and everyone walked on eggshells around John. Once that one-year milestone was reached, everybody got over it. And they expected that John had too. He was supposed to get on with his life now that his mandatory mourning period had passed. But as the second year without Sherlock dawned, he recognized how addicted to their lifestyle—and to Sherlock—he'd become. For a while, there had been hope that he would find a new meaning to life as he grew accustomed to his absence. But he missed Sherlock even more. It had been too long since he'd seen him, and no greater purpose of life revealed itself.

It seemed his ultimate purpose had been to serve as Sherlock's loyal blogger and friend. Now that era was over, his existence was purposeless. If he hadn't met Mary, there was no doubt he'd have succumbed to the desire to join Sherlock on the other side. She gave him a new purpose, not nearly as fulfilling as his previous position, but enough to keep him grounded. This time, he already possessed a secondary purpose as Rosie's father and Mary's husband. But that didn't mean he missed his old life any less. And as the distance between him and the time when Sherlock was alive inevitably increased, the gaping hole in his soul widened.

~0~

The next time he saw Scott, he told him about the first letter: "Rosie said her first word, and I wrote to Sherlock about that."

"I was starting to think you'd never do it, it's been months since you pitched the idea," Scott chuckled.

"Yeah, well, I was waiting for something worth talking about. He hated it when I bored him with meaningless banter."

"I understand, but I'm glad you finally implemented that coping method. Just out of curiosity, what did she say?"

"Dull. Though I assume she was going for skull."

"Really? She must be something special. Most infants go for 'ball' or 'Mama,'" Scott chuckled.

"What can I say? She's her godfather's daughter."

"Yes, well it certainly seems so." John glanced over and watched Sherlock chuckling in the corner. He tried to stifle his reaction, but a smile broke out on his face despite his efforts. Scott took notice. Of course he did. "What are you looking at?" he asked.

John startled, refocusing his gaze on the therapist across from him. "Nothing," he instinctively muttered.

"You definitely looked at something. I've noticed you glance in that direction quite often, certainly more often than any other place in the room."

"Who are you, Sherlock Holmes?" John asked jestingly. Mistake. Speaking his name only made John look reflexively to the corner again.

"I may not be a detective, but my job does require me to observe," Scott remarked. "You just looked that way again."

"I guess I'm just… momentarily breaking eye contact?" John attempted to formulate a plausible excuse.

"There's a difference between looking away and looking to."

John was in trouble. If Scott found out about Sherlock… John was afraid to even consider what might happen. It was technically a persistent hallucination, a symptom of something far more severe than simple grief for a lost loved one. Worst-case scenario: he might get carted off to some facility and forbidden from seeing his wife and daughter until he was stabilized. That was something he wanted to avoid at all costs. John needed a valid excuse, and he needed one now. He surreptitiously glanced back to the same corner, where Sherlock was pointing out the bookshelf next to him. John quickly scanned it and found a copy of a textbook he himself owned. It sat on the shelf directly above the photo of Sherlock in the deerstalker hat.

"It's your bookshelf," John explained. "I recognize one of the volumes, I have one just like it in my living room. I guess I take comfort in the familiarity."

"That makes sense. I was just concerned that maybe that spot was so enticing because of some horrid interior decorating mistake I made." John laughed halfheartedly with Scott before the conversation was steered back on track. "How's work going?" Scott inquired.

"It's work," John began. "Usually pretty dull, but that's how it's supposed to be. If I wanted exciting, I'd work in A&E."

"Do you want exciting?"

"I don't know. I definitely couldn't do A&E with my shoulder being what it is, but I do still like a good adrenaline rush. I'm sure I'll have plenty to get worked up about when Rosie gets older. But for now, I guess I'm content. It's certainly a step above sitting around doing nothing."

"You don't sound very content," Scott remarked.

"It just doesn't compare to my old job. Or my old colleagues," he added wistfully. "But nothing ever will."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing. I was the happiest I've ever been in my life."

"And you can't see yourself ever being happy like that again?"

John earnestly thought on this for a moment before replying, "No."

"That sounds just a tad pessimistic, don't you think?"

"It's not pessimistic, it's realistic," John defended. "I've been in a pretty stable state of contentment for the past few weeks, no climbing or descending."

"In the grand scheme of things, four months is not a lot of time. You can't expect things to change on a noticeable scale in that short a period. But you don't see any possibility for improvement even in the distant future?"

"I'm waiting for the two year mark, when he'll come back and tell me it was all a hoax," John chuffed. Scott glanced up at John, an expression of concern etched on his face. He quickly corrected, "I'm kidding, of course. I know this time was for real."

"But do you think a part of you will still hold out hope until that two year mark passes?"

"I guess so?"

"This is why you can't judge progress on months. It's very possible that you'll plateau until you reach that milestone."

"And once I get there, do things get better or worse?"

"That, John, is entirely up to you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays! Unfortunately, I won't be able to post on Monday like I usually do because I'll be out of town, but I hope everyone has a wonderful end-of-year season. Next chapter should be up by Thursday at the latest.


	10. Inscription

"You really should tell her," Sherlock chided. John was alone in the flat while Mary took Rosie to visit a friend. John had spent the last week coming to terms with the fact that he might be stuck in the same grief limbo for the next year and a half. He really wasn't in the mood to deliberate with a manifestation of his own thoughts.

"Tell who what?" John countered. Sherlock often said things like that with absolutely no preface, forcing John to go back and interrogate him to find out what the hell he was talking about.

"Mary. You've kept an awful lot of secrets from her. Aren't married couples supposed to be completely honest?"

"Maybe they are, but in case you haven't noticed, neither of us is the typical spouse. And she's told her fair share of lies."

"True, true. However, she's expertly trained in the art of dishonesty. You, on the other hand, are not, and everything you haven't said is eating you up inside."

"Not true. Nothing is eating me up inside."

"Then why do you flinch every time your phone buzzes?"

"I just shudder at the memory of that awful text tone that somebody once programmed into your mobile."

"Why, were you jealous?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"Sherlock, I was not jealous of the Woman. You and I were never like that, and you know it. If I had feelings for you, you would've known even before I did."

"I was jealous of Mary."

"Excuse me?"

"Not because she's your wife, just because she got to spend so much time with you. After you got married, you stayed away for so long."

"Yeah, and when I did see you again, it was in a sodding drug den."

"It was for a case!"

"That's your excuse for everything. Tell me, was this for a case? You dying? Did that help you solve anything?"

"Everything leading up to it did. Though I was admittedly unprepared for what I found at the end of the trail."

"That's an understatement," John huffed.

"We both know it was bound to happen eventually. I never expected to live a long life."

"I know that, but I didn't exactly think that my own bloody wife would be your final, fatal case!"

"It wasn't her fault."

"You don't know that. Even she blamed herself; she told me as much. You can't deny the fact that none of this would've happened if it weren't for her."

"You could also argue that without her, our reunion would've stopped with you attacking me and forcing me back out of your life," Sherlock countered.

"You could argue a lot of things."

"Except for the fact that she's the mother of your child and that she loves you. She deserves to know."

"Know what?"

"About me."

"No. Absolutely not."

"Why?"

"I can't dump this on her. I haven't even dared to dump this on my therapist, as I'm sure you've observed."

"John, you can't keep going like this."

"Apparently I'm to wait until the two year mark proves you're really gone and I can move on for real. Is that when you're going to leave me alone, two years?"

"I don't know. I think that's up to you. But the sooner I leave, the better, yes?"

"Probably," John said. Inside, he was thinking the exact opposite. He didn't want his best friend to abandon him yet again. "But I don't know how to get rid of you."

"Have you ever tried?"

"Not exactly. I don't even know how to go about it."

"For starters, don't respond when I speak to you. If Mary were to walk in right now, she'd see you having a conversation with an empty chair. By engaging me, you're encouraging me to stay."

John opened his mouth to reply, but quickly stopped himself. It was unnecessary to say that he wasn't going to acknowledge him anymore, because by doing so he'd be acknowledging him. John stood up and turned towards the staircase, putting his back to Sherlock's armchair, already yearning for more conversation with the detective. He considered going upstairs to his room, but decided against it. His thoughts drifted to the distant two-year anniversary and what sort of revelation would await him. Would he finally let go when even any subconscious hope for his return was abolished? Or would he realize he would never get a real-life reunion and instead regress to clinging onto memories with a death grip? Scott had said it was up to him. It was a long way away, but John had no other long term plans to consider.

He didn't want to let go so much that he forgot. No, he could never forget. To forget would be an insult to his memory, and a disservice to Rosie. He needed some way to remind himself every day how much a part of him Sherlock really was, something besides the hallucination that followed him. Living in 221B was a good first step, but there would be times John would be away from home. He needed something concrete, something to keep with him at all times as a constant reminder, something that hadn't been conjured up in his head. An idea popped into his head. At first, he dismissed it, but then he paused to reconsider its value. A few minutes of deliberation later, and John's mind was set. He just hoped Mary wouldn't disapprove too strongly.

~0~

She didn't actually find out what he'd done until a month afterwards. Not that he was actively hiding it, it just so happened that she didn't care to notice and John didn't care to tell her. Her ignorance could have gone on indefinitely, if it weren't for a convergence of circumstances involving Rosie's sleep schedule, John's workday, and neglected laundry.

Typically, Mary was putting Rosie to bed just as John got out of the shower. But that day, he was delayed in getting in because of a particularly long day at the surgery, and therefore delayed in getting out. Also, he usually got dressed immediately after drying off. But that day, he didn't have a clean pyjama shirt to change into, a fact he didn't notice until he was naked from the waist up and searching for one. He was about to just throw on a dirty one when Mary entered the room with a basket of clean laundry.

Again, he hadn't been actively hiding what he'd done from Mary for the past month, but now that he was faced with revealing it to her, he feared how she would react. Slowly, he turned around and watched her gaze immediately flit to his bare shoulder. She'd seen the old bullet wound scar before, but not the other mark that now accompanied it.

"When did you get a tattoo?" she questioned, throwing the basket onto the bed and moving closer to investigate.

"About a month ago," John admitted. He felt himself tense up under her scrutiny.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Didn't seem important."

"Well, I think it's important. Certainly more important than the more boring patients you insist on telling me about."

"I don't know. I wasn't sure how you'd react, didn't want to upset you."

"John, it's your body. I can't tell you what you can or can't do with it. And I would never get upset with you over something like this. I think it's a perfectly acceptable thing to do."

"Are you saying you want one too?" John joked.

"No. Definitely not. We are not a matching tattoo type of couple."

"Agreed."

"But why'd you choose to put it there, right over the scar?"

"So that I think about it every time my shoulder aches or twinges."

"Which is… how often?"

"Pretty much all the time."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"Too late to change it now. But yes, I do think it's a good idea. Forgetting is far worse than hanging on."

"But there is such a thing as holding too tightly. You know that, right?"

"Of course I know that. I'm working on loosening my grip. This has actually helped, because I can now let go without worrying about not being able to find my way back."

"Good. Did you ask Scott before you got it?"

"No. But I did tell him about it afterwards. He seemed to approve. I explained it the same way I just did to you."

"Okay. Thank you for telling me all of this. I know it's been hard, and being totally open isn't really your thing, but if there's ever anything you need to talk about, I'm here. I'm not as qualified as Scott, but I do know you and I knew him, alright?"

"Alright."

Mary tossed John a clean shirt from the basket and he pulled it over his head. He went back to the bathroom to brush his teeth, and afterwards crawled into bed. Mary joined him a few minutes later, and within minutes she was asleep. John lay awake a while longer, running his hand over his shoulder and thinking about the words now permanently etched there: high-functioning sociopath.

~0~

"Not here," John thought. "Anywhere but here." No matter how many times he stood here, the sting never lessened even the slightest bit. He'd probably been in this exact moment a hundred times or more since it first happened, and every time he felt his heart ripped from his chest like a gunshot in reverse. Last time he'd been here in person, it drove him to a meltdown and he screamed at a formulation of his own subconscious, and this visit was no less painful.

For the umpteenth time, John found himself on the pavement outside St. Bart's, surrounded by a bustling street. Somehow, his phone was in his hand, though he had no recollection of picking it up. He knew what was about to happen, had endured it more times than he cared to count, but that didn't assuage the wave of dread roiling inside of him. He felt the phone ring before he heard it, a strong vibration resonating up his entire arm. No phone could actually vibrate that strongly, but his senses were heightened with fear and adrenaline. He shouldn't answer it. He knew exactly what the impending conversation would entail and every fiber of his being wanted to chuck the mobile and run in the opposite direction, but he couldn't. He was compelled to answer and raise it to his ear.

The words spoken to him were always the same, yet even senseless repetition hadn't quieted the roaring in his ears that always followed this conversation. "Okay, look up, I'm on the rooftop," Sherlock's voice chimed. Those weren't the first words of the conversation as it happened in real life, but John's mind usually decided to leave out the parts that weren't utterly soul-crushing. "I… I can't come down, so we'll… we'll just have to do it like this."

"What's going on?" John's vocal cords acted of their own accord. He was a prisoner in his own body, forced to sit and watch while it carried him through one of the worst moments of his life.

"An apology. It's all true."

"What?"

"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty." John knew it wasn't true, not at all, because he'd seen the aftermath of Sherlock's return, had been there to hear his name cleared. But his head ignored that logic, instead panicking as it heard the unthinkable spoken from his best friend's mouth.

"Why are you saying this?"

"I'm a fake." No, you're not. Absolutely not. "The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly… in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."

"Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met… the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?"

"Nobody could be that clever."

"You could."

"I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick. Just a magic trick." John should have known he was lying. Sherlock hadn't known he'd be meeting John that day, wouldn't have had time to do any 'research.' God, he'd been such an idiot.

"No. All right, stop it now." John's feet carried him closer, inching towards the building.

"No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move," Sherlock instructed urgently. John shouldn't have listened. When did he ever listen to Sherlock when he bossed him around like this?

"All right," John relented.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"

"Do what?"

"This phone call—it's, er… it's my note. It's what people do, don't they—leave a note?"

"Leave a note when?" John knew what was coming, could visualize it perfectly, but the dread rose up and began to choke him from the inside out.

"Goodbye, John." At the time, he hadn't known those would be the last words he'd hear Sherlock speak for two years.

"No. Don't. No. SHERLOCK!" John raced forwards, just as he'd done so long ago, knowing he'd be too late. Just before the impact, he remembered the cyclist that had struck him, delaying his mad dash to the base of the building. He felt it strike him and saw the ground coming closer, closer, closer until he landed on the pavement.

Except he didn't land on pavement.

As he made contact with what should have been hard asphalt, he instead felt himself slip through the surface as if it were merely water. He reflexively closed his eyes as he sank through the surface, wondering what horror show his mind would force him through next. The first sensation that registered was an omnipresent wet. He opened his eyes and found himself underwater. Startled, he swam upwards hoping to surface and take a breath, because people can't breathe water, can they? He thought he saw the surface nearing, but when he reached it his head bumped up against solid glass. He was stuck inside a tank. Immediately, he panicked. He was going to drown, what else was there to do? His breathing picked up speed—wait, breathing? Right, this was a dream. Breathing underwater wasn't the craziest thing that his mind had ever dreamt up.

Now that he'd recognized the situation for what it was, he calmed down a bit. He decided to swim around and investigate his surroundings. There had to be some greater purpose to this. He didn't fear drowning, so it made little sense for water imprisonment to be a part of a nightmare that inevitably had him tossing and turning and crying out in his sleep. Five seconds later, the first shark swam across his visual field. It stared ahead with dead eyes, paying John no attention. John didn't much resemble a fish.

"Okay, it's a shark tank," John thought. But it still didn't make any sense why this was a part of this dream. This was downright tranquil compared to what he'd just witnessed. Had he dreamt this and this alone, he would've reported a pleasant night the following morning. People did this for fun, didn't they? Swam with sharks. He swam around some more, noticing a few more sharks, until he saw the glass panel that looked out over a room. He didn't put the pieces together until he heard the gunshot.

London Aquarium.

Frantically, he dove towards the panel, desperate to see what transpired just on the other side of it. He saw the back of gray-haired Vivan Norbury, still holding her smoking gun aloft. He saw Lestrade, and Mycroft, and Mary, and… Sherlock. This was the sight that had greeted him that fateful night: Lestrade's men rushing the old woman, Mycroft desperately dialing, Mary pressing on the fatal chest wound, and Sherlock lying helpless and suffering on the floor. And then John saw himself rush into the room. This was new; he'd only ever dreamt from his perspective, never as a third party.

He watched himself survey the situation and rush to Sherlock's side.

"John," Sherlock mumbled. John banged on the glass wall, wanting to break it and cause a flood that could wipe this all away.

"Shhhh, you're okay," John heard himself utter that meaningless placation. "You're okay. Remember last time? They fixed you up and you ended up fleeing from hospital."

"Not like last time," Sherlock muttered, shaking his head.

"Okay. Okay."

"John?" He remembered this all too vividly; his brain wasn't missing a word from the conversation that had seen Sherlock into the next world. "Not Bart's. Not Molly."

"Okay. Not Bart's. God, you're a saint, you know that?"

The conversation continued, "Sherlock, you made a vow. You said… you said you'd always be there… whatever happens." John watched himself start to cry. He couldn't tell if he was crying inside the tank too, everything was already wet.

"You'll still… have Mary," Sherlock reminded him. Yes, he did still have Mary. She still blamed herself for this, and a part of John did too.

"But I want you too."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. It's not your fault." John now understood why people thought they were a couple. He literally stroked Sherlock's hair and gazed into his eyes—that was something people did when they were in love.

"Look after him," Sherlock said to Mary. She wasn't doing so great a job at that. She hadn't even figured about the illusion that haunted John.

"I will," Mary said.

"John. Take care of Rosie." He thought he was doing a decent job of that, so far. She was healthy and didn't seem to pick up on the sadness that clung to John like a stubborn fog.

"You'll be okay," Sherlock said.

"No I bloody won't!" No, I'm bloody not!

"John, promise me." John bit the inside of his cheek and, if possible, pounded even harder upon the glass. A shark swam behind him, mere feet away, but he couldn't care less. He was engrossed in the scene before him.

"Promise what?"

"Promise you'll… move on. Live your life."

"I promise," John said. God, he was doing a shitty job of that. The fact that he was dreaming this right now proved just how badly he'd failed his best friend. He didn't want to watch what came next. Fortunately, he didn't have to. After another pass behind him, one of the sharks swam up boldly. John saw it coming in the slight reflection on the glass. It opened its jaws impossibly wide and swallowed John whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had way too much fun writing that last bit. Who doesn't love a good dream sequence?


	11. Celebration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a time jump here, but it shouldn't be very confusing :)

John awoke with a gasp, drenched in sweat with the sheets and quilt hopelessly twisted around him. There was no sign of Mary, which wasn't uncommon. She preferred to flee rather than attempt to wake John from a nightmare-addled sleep. He always felt a little bit guilty knowing he'd driven her from her own bed, but he was too emotionally and physically exhausted to dwell on it for too long. He untangled himself and sat up on the side of the bed, absentmindedly rubbing his shoulder. The first time he'd had this particular dream had been the night Mary finally noticed the tattoo. It had repeated itself several times a week since.

Each time was slightly different but equally devastating. Sometimes moments from Afghanistan were thrown in beforehand, sometimes the water in the shark tank turned to blood and suffocated him, and sometimes his mind added an alternate—and ultimately more explosive ending—to the altercation with Moriarty at the pool. But the two times he'd watched Sherlock die always replayed themselves in gloriously high resolution. He'd told Scott about this, had even tried all the techniques he recommended, but nothing helped. Each night, he dreaded going to sleep for fear of what his subconscious might cook up. Some nights he purposefully abandoned the scarf quilt and lay awake for hours rather than subject himself to further emotional torture.

"John, you up?" Mary's voice broke him away from his thoughts. It was a welcome respite; they were rarely positive nowadays.

"Yeah," he called. It was a Saturday, so neither of them had to work. Unlike most people, John didn't prefer the weekends. Going to the surgery gave his mind something to focus on besides his own grief. And Sherlock's apparition—whose existence remained a well-kept secret between John and Molly—never followed him there. Anywhere else, John was potentially subject to his commentary and had to resist replying lest Mary hear him. Slowly but surely, he was adapting a more negative attitude towards the illusion. It served as a cruel reminder of the friendship he used to have, and it was growing gradually more difficult to hide from Mary and Scott. Yet it seemed the less he wanted Sherlock around, the more often he made an appearance.

"John, you're not seriously considering getting rid of me, are you?" Sherlock asked. John sighed in defeat, knowing the detective would probably remain by his side all day and drive his stress levels through the roof.

"Do you have to bother me this early in the morning?" John asked.

"It's already nine o'clock."

"John, Rosie's asking for you!" Mary called from the other room. John dragged himself into the bathroom and got ready for the day ahead. When he finally wandered into the living room, Rosie greeted him from her spot on the floor.

"Dada!" she chimed. He sat down across from her and said good morning. She immediately returned to playing with the skull, as she did nearly every day. John watched her little fingers slide over the alabaster surface and marveled at the fact that his daughter was so attached to this particular toy. He wondered if she could somehow sense who it came from and deemed it so important because of that. John reached out his own hand and placed it next to hers on the parietal region. She moved her hand on top of his and looked up at him with eyes that so closely resembled his own.

"John, what are you doing?" Mary entered the room and glanced at the two hands perched on top of the skull. John then realized just how long they'd been sitting here like this, gazing at each other intently. He broke eye contact first, and Rosie giggled.

"I don't really know. Apparently it was some sort of staring contest, and I lost," John said.

"Well shake hands, say good game, and then help me get ready," Mary instructed.

"Ready for what?"

"Don't tell me you forgot."

"Forgot what?"

"What today is?"

"Clearly I have, so please enlighten me."

Sherlock chose that moment to interject, "John, this is a big one. You're going to regret letting it slip your mind." John resorted to literally biting his tongue to avoid spitting a retort at the figure in the corner. He knew it wasn't their wedding anniversary, nor was it yet a year since they'd lost Sherlock.

"John, it's Rosie's first birthday today," Mary sighed with poorly-disguised disappointment in her voice. Oh God. How could he have forgotten such an important date? The first birthday was one of the most important milestones in a child's life, yet he'd just thrown the date out the window of whatever sorry excuse for a brain he possessed. Sherlock wouldn't have forgotten something so crucial. He would have it tucked away neatly in a new wing of his mind palace dedicated to Rosamund Mary Watson.

"God, I'm sorry. It totally slipped my mind," John apologized. He braced himself for a scolding, but it never came. Mary just sighed again and said, "I guess it's alright. She's too young to even recognize what today is either."

He was a terrible father, and a terrible husband. This was the type of thing that Mary would claim she forgave him for but never actually did. He wasn't sure he could ever forgive himself. He remembered the events leading up to Rosie's birth vividly—nobody could wipe that from their memory if they tried—but somehow the date slipped his mind. Hopefully the reminder of this slip-up would ensure he never forgot it again.

Mary had returned to the kitchen, and John followed her to catch up on the day's plans and attempt to make amends. Before he could say anything, she cut him off, "I don't want you to embarrass yourself further by asking questions about plans I've been talking about for weeks."

John's stomach did a somersault inside his abdomen. He knew he hadn't been totally with it since it happened, but he never suspected he was so lost that he'd tune his own wife out. Evidently, he was far less coherent than he thought. That was a problem. Mary continued, "We're having a few friends over this afternoon, nothing huge. Mrs. Hudson's making a cake, Molly and Greg will probably bring something or other. I asked you if you wanted to invite your sister, and you said no."

John had no recollection of doing any such thing. But whatever state of mind he'd been in when Mary asked that question agreed with his current state; he didn't want to see Harry today. He maybe didn't want to see Harry ever.

"John, she's your sister, and Rosie's aunt," Sherlock said solemnly. But she's also a hopeless alcoholic who can barely hold her own life together. John sat down at the table and ran his fingers through his hair in exasperation. He decided to change the subject to hopefully diffuse the situation.

"Did you get any sleep?" he asked Mary.

"Once I left the earthquake simulator you turn out bed into, yes," she replied cheekily. John's cheeks instantly flushed with guilt.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

"No, it's really not. We should at least take turns on the sofa."

"I fear you'd fall off and hurt yourself. And you know sleeping on the sofa bothers your shoulder." She was right (of course) but that did nothing to lessen John's remorse. His wife was suffering because he couldn't keep his emotions under control.

"I appreciate your concern, but it still seems so unfair, me kicking you out almost every night."

"John, life isn't fair," Mary retorted. "I think having the occasional kip on the couch is rather mild compared to what some people have to endure." It took a second for John to register the true meaning behind this comment.

"She still blames herself," Sherlock told him. "For what happened to me. You have to remember that she's suffering too. Apparently, when it comes to friends, I haven't just got one." John exhaled deeply and tried to look at things from Mary's perspective. She was awoken nearly every night by her husband's nightmare-induced tossing and turning. She knew the only plausible cause of the dreams was the absence of the man who'd been killed by someone from her past. She'd seen him in the wake of Sherlock's death once before and been the solution; now she considered herself a part of the cause. Sleeping on the couch was rather mild compared to the pain she knew burned inside John. Both of their issues paled in comparison to their friend's untimely demise at the hands of a madwoman.

"Okay," John relented. Some of the tension leaked out of the room, but not enough. It was never enough.

~0~

Poor Rosie was a tad overwhelmed by all the attention. Mrs. Hudson had taken so many photographs that even John was dizzy. And, of course, all five pairs of eyes in the flat were trained on her when she was faced with the first piece of cake she'd ever seen in her short life. John didn't think she even recognized it as something edible, so he broke off a piece and offered it to her. After deliberate consideration, she shoved the small, fluffy piece against her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. The next few bites she managed herself, before she decided it would be more fun to just smash it around the plate. Everyone thought that was rather adorable.

"Ah yes, making a mess is adorable in infants, yet unacceptable in adults," Sherlock quipped from his position over John's shoulder.

"Shut up," John muttered under his breath.

"John, did you say something?" Greg asked. Apparently he didn't mutter discreetly enough.

"No, just clearing my throat," John quickly defended. Greg easily accepted this answer, and John breathed a sigh of relief.

"You almost got caught there, John. You ought to be more careful," said Sherlock. "The last thing you want is to out yourself in front of all these people." He was right; that was certainly the last thing John wanted, which is why he didn't retort.

A short while later, Rosie was contently playing with some of her new toys while the adults sat around and chatted. John noted that Sherlock's chair remained conspicuously empty. None of their guests had even considered seating themselves there. John presumed they thought he would react negatively, and they'd be right. That chair was ubiquitously Sherlock's; having anyone else sit there would taint its essence. Rosie was the only exception.

"Why is that, John?" Sherlock asked. He plopped himself down in the chair in question and folded his hands in that same manner he always did. "Why is she the only exception?" John didn't know how to answer this question. Even if he did, he wouldn't have, because that would mean speaking to Sherlock. He could only do that when he was alone.

Rosie was John's daughter; maybe that's why he was willing to give her preferential treatment. Sherlock had always seated Rosie in John's chair when he'd been alive, but that was because she was a Watson, and because he himself used the other. John's deliberations were interrupted when Molly asked the dreaded question, "How are you, John?"

"Given the circumstances, I think I'm alright," John lied. He spoke the sentence slowly and deliberately, hoping they wouldn't see through him. Mary eyed him knowingly, but made no move to correct him. "Everything's going slowly, but it's going. How are you liking the chemistry equipment, Molly?" John asked.

"I can't thank you enough for allowing me to have it. I know he would've wanted it put to good use. It's already helped me decipher many causes of death. There were even a few instances where the police assumed one thing and I proved them wrong," the forensic pathologist explained. John could hear the pride in her voice, and knew it was justified. Across from him, Sherlock's apparition was smiling.

"How are things at work, Greg?" Mary asked.

"Well, you know, they're different," he hesitated. John could tell he was deliberating how much to divulge. "It's certainly calmer, a bit more organized than it was… before. But, I have to say it's less enjoyable. A little chaos is good for you, you know? We're struggling a bit to pick up the slack, but it's helped people appreciate… everything he did for us."

"I'm sure Anderson's at a loss without a bickering partner," John joked. "Did he find a new punching bag, or has he given up entirely?" John didn't recognize the level of suppressed rage in that comment until he saw the reactions of everyone else in the room. He immediately regretted opening his mouth at all.

"Actually, Anderson's really stepped up his game. He's always asking to take on extra cases or work overtime. I've had to deny him a few times just to force him to go home and sleep."

"Really?" John was honestly shocked that he'd react in such a manner.

"Well, last time he went a little off the deep end with his conspiracies and theories as to how he faked it. He even roped in a bunch of other people and made a little club, called it the 'Empty Hearse.' At the time I thought guilt had driven him mad, but as it turned out he was right all along. Apparently Sherlock even told him how he did it, if Anderson's bragging is based in truth. He never even told me."

"Did you honestly want to know?" Mary inquired.

"Yeah, I did. I am a detective, though you lot seem to forget that, so I've always liked learning the answers to mysteries. Did he tell you?"

"No," John stated. "He wanted to, but I wouldn't let him. I couldn't care less about the how, I wanted the why."

Molly remained uncharacteristically silent throughout this conversation. Of the people in the room, she was the only one to know the truth about the suicide at Bart's. John knew she felt terrible about keeping such a secret from them, but Sherlock and Mycroft had forced her hand. Not too long ago, John had heaped another big secret on her poor shoulders: the existence of his delusion. John noticed that she kept looking at him to follow his gaze, which landed on Sherlock's empty chair more often than it should.

Molly met John's eyes and mouthed the words, "Is he here?" John only nodded solemnly, and she looked again to the vacant black armchair. She looked back at John, and then at Mary. He knew she was silently asking if he'd told her yet. He shook his head no. The poor pathologist had been forced to be the sole confidante far too many times.

"Why don't we talk about something a little cheerier," Molly suggested shyly.

"Sounds like a great idea. This is supposed to be a celebration," John added.

"Dull," Rosie declared from her spot on the floor.

"When did she pick that word up?" Greg asked huffily. "I've never heard someone so young complain of boredom. She's got a piece of her godfather in her after all."

John stood up and fetched the skull from where he'd placed it on the mantelpiece earlier. He set it down in front of his daughter and explained, "That's her attempt at saying 'skull.' I told you it was her favorite toy."

"Yes, well hearing it and seeing it are two very different things."

"I just hope she doesn't ask for a complete set of bones once she's old enough to realize that most of them are missing. I think that would be rather difficult to obtain," John said.

"Unless Molly's willing to pull some strings," Mary chuckled.

The pathologist looked petrified before she realized Mary was kidding. "No, not even I could manage to get away with that. A corpse without a skeleton is rather distinguishable from one that does have one." This comment elicited a much-needed laugh from everyone in the room. The rest of the party eclipsed with idle chitchat. John's perception of the conversation was punctuated only occasionally by a scathing remark from the Sherlock illusion. If one were to simply look at this group of friends, they'd wonder how on Earth they became close in the first place. Each was so fundamentally different, but they'd been brought together by the unstoppable force that was Sherlock Holmes.

~0~

That night, while resolutely ignoring the figure of the detective as he stared from across the room, John wrote his second letter to Sherlock:

Rosie turned one today. I'm embarrassed to admit it, but I had no idea it was her birthday until Mary reminded me. I guess I've been too busy missing you. I know that's a lame excuse, but it's the only one I can think of. I see you almost every waking hour, and you talk to me. Sometimes I'm not strong enough to resist talking back. Even though I know it's not really you, it's far too easy to pretend it is. But I can't let myself slip into believing that, because then when I finally recognize that it's not true it will be like losing you all over again. Twice was more than enough.

Molly and Greg were over today for Rosie's party, and of course they asked how I was holding up. I said things were steadily improving. Why did I lie to them? I would've been so easy to tell the truth, yet I lied. If you were here for real you could've told me why. The version of you my brain conjured up isn't nearly as good at deductions. Both Molly and Lestrade seem to be holding up fine, so why aren't I?

Not too long from now will be the one year anniversary of your death. I wish I could stop time and ensure that day never comes. After the first year, things are supposed to gradually get better, but I know they won't, at least not for me. After one year, everyone else will move on and start judging me because I can't. They won't say it to my face, but I'll be able to see it in their eyes. The only person who would truly accept my mourning, no matter how long it took, is you.

—John Watson


	12. Anniversary

After Rosie's first birthday, things picked up speed. Before John knew it, she was toddling all over the flat and making his and Mary's lives even more difficult. With this newfound freedom came a newfound desire to explore every crack and crevice she could find. They had to go over and re-childproof everything, removing choking hazards, covering sharp corners, and locking cabinets. Her vocabulary also began to grow exponentially, encompassing words like 'no' and 'more.' Between work at the surgery and taking care of his daughter, John had less time to dwell on his thoughts.

However, by no means did they disappear entirely. Whenever he wasn't otherwise occupied, the sadness swelled and filled each synapse in his brain. The smallest things reminded him of what was now a previous life: the sound of violin music, Connie Prince reruns, the color pink, swimming pools, rabbits, newspaper headlines, umbrellas, dogs, graffiti, trains, war movies, and many more he couldn't name. Things that shouldn't bother him at all elicited a strange, hollow feeling, like a pump was slowly draining all the fluid and organs from inside him.

John still met with Scott at least every few weeks at his own insistence. There were a lot of things which he refused to dump on Mary that nonetheless needed saying. The therapist was helpful, of that there was no doubt, but he certainly couldn't fix everything. Among those things were the terrible nightmares that still haunted him most nights. John tried everything short of pharmacological assistance to sleep peacefully, but nothing worked. He could tell Mary was growing frustrated with him, thought she never said anything. John was growing frustrated with himself too. During the day, Sherlock's apparition haunted him no matter how resolutely he ignored it; during the night, he relived the worst moments of his life over and over again. In short: he was despondent.

He told Scott as much during their latest session, just shy of the one-year mark. "I'm just so frustrated. I'd like to improve, but some part of my brain isn't letting me."

"Depression isn't something you can just wrench yourself out of by pure force of will," Scott explained.

"I know that. But it took Sherlock Holmes to pull me out of it after Afghanistan, and it took Mary Morstan and a miracle resurrection to pull me out last time. Am I just the kind of person who needs another person to be my saving grace?"

"Not necessarily. I think you might need a dramatic shift in agenda. After Afghanistan, Sherlock turned you from invalided military vet to crime-solving assistant and blogger. Mary turned you from a grieving former blogger to a lover and potential husband. A lot of people make drastic life changes after losing someone close to them."

John understood Scott's point, but he didn't see how he could change his life at this stage. He couldn't exactly go back to Afghanistan and start the whole damn cycle over again. "How do you suggest I do that?" he finally asked.

"Find something that speaks to you. It could be a hobby, a career, or anything that allows you to explore a new direction. What are some things you enjoy doing?"

This shouldn't be a difficult question. Everyone had interests and pastimes that occupied their free time. Except John couldn't think of anything. His definition of fun used to be going out on a case with Sherlock, but that was obviously not an option. Before that, he'd been young and reckless. As a teenager and young adult, he'd played sports with the other boys, but he was far too old and out of shape for anything like that nowadays. He admitted, "I don't know."

"There has to be something that makes you happy."

"Umm…" John deliberated for a while longer before settling on, "helping people. That's why I became a doctor in the first place, and a big piece of what made solving cases so enjoyable."

"That's a great start. There are so many directions you could go with that. You already help people at work, correct?"

"Yes."

"And you find that fulfilling?"

"I guess so."

"Why 'I guess so' and not 'yes?'"

"In general practice, the patients sometimes complain of the most benign things. A lot of times, I just try to get them in and out as fast as possible because they don't actually need help."

"You'd prefer if their issues were more dire?"

"No, of course not. But it would be somewhat more fulfilling to work with people who are a bit needier, you know?"

"Yes, I understand. But you don't think you'd be physically capable of working in a more intense field of medicine?"

"Probably not. And I'd probably have to go back to school and get certifications, and I'm not in a position to do that."

"That's okay. What if you took up a volunteer position somewhere?"

"You mean like in a hospital or a nursing home?"

"Yeah."

"I guess that could work," John responded robotically, knowing he wasn't being entirely truthful. Honestly, he'd lost nearly all faith that anything Scott suggested would work. He was quickly tiring of running through the same routine every time he came to see his therapist. He was tiring of everything; work, fatherhood, life.

"You don't sound very convinced," Scott remarked. John sighed melodramatically—of course he couldn't fool him.

"I'm not very convinced of anything at the moment."

"That's okay. You haven't found your footing yet." John didn't think he'd ever stop scrabbling for a hold on whatever ledge Sherlock's death had abandoned him on. The only thing that provided him any consolation was the eventual promise of the two year mark, which may allow his subconscious to release whatever hold it had on the idea that he might be coming back. If John could only fast forward to that point—or better yet, skip to the very end when he could join his friend on whatever lay on the other side of life. "John?" Scott's voice brought him back to reality. John shook his head to clear the thoughts and looked back at him.

"Yes?"

"Are you okay?"

"Yes," he lied. Glancing into the corner, he saw Sherlock's always-present illusion shaking his head sadly. He knew John wasn't okay, which meant John himself knew that. He just didn't want to admit it.

"We're almost out of time, is there anything else you want to touch on?" Scott inquired. Sherlock's eyes widened in expectation, but John shook his head and kept his mouth firmly closed. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

~0~

He knew as soon as he woke up that absolutely no progress would be made today. Mary had called the surgery weeks ago and requested John be given today off. They didn't even need to ask the reason; they knew. That morning, John awoke from a rare dream-free sleep and wished he could return to that state for the remainder of the day. This day shouldn't have felt worse than any other, if he really thought about it, it was just another day. However, something about the fact that today marked one whole year made it fundamentally different.

He got himself ready to face the day, already wishing it was over. The hollow feeling inside of him that had quieted in the shadow of his focus on Rosie returned full-force, and he felt as if he'd fall over with the slightest breeze. When he entered Rosie's room to rouse her, even she sensed something was wrong. "Dada?" her little voice wavered.

"Yes, Rosie?" he asked, trying to make himself sound less distracted than he really was. He picked her up and looked into her eyes and feeling moisture burning at the back of his own. Despite his efforts at prevention, several tears rolled down his cheeks. Rosie brought her little hand to his face and dabbed the moisture away.

"Wet," she remarked.

"Sorry about that," John sighed. "Today's going to be a little off for Daddy."

"Off?"

"Different from most days, okay? I'm sorry. But I promise, tomorrow will be better." He brought her into the living room and set her down to play while Mary prepared breakfast. He could already tell he wouldn't feel like eating much, if anything at all. He greeted Mary with a solemn 'good morning' and sat down heavily.

"Good morning. Although I suppose today isn't much good, is it?" she asked. John shook his head. "I'm sorry. Whatever you need me to do, just ask."

"Okay."

"Can I do anything for you right now?"

"No."

"Okay." She was walking on eggshells, and he couldn't blame her for it. He doubted he'd have the energy to get truly upset or angry over anything today, only react with varying degrees of indifference. There was only one thing he felt like he needed to do.

"Can we visit?" he asked Mary. He knew he wouldn't need to specify where.

"Of course. All three of us?"

"Yes. We should teach her young."

"Okay."

The rest of the morning passed mostly in silence. Rosie picked up on John's energy and was fussier than usual. John spent the time in his chair staring emptily at the space before him. That afternoon, the three Watsons made their way to the cemetery where Sherlock Holmes's second gravestone lay. It looked much the same as it had on the day of the funeral, not that John had been paying much attention to anything that day.

"I can't believe it's already been a year," Mary remarked glumly. "Seems like just yesterday he was trying to steal you away from me at all hours to go work on a case."

"Yeah," John sighed. "I can't tell if this has been the longest or the shortest year of my life." Mary didn't respond to him, likely fearing she'd give the wrong answer. Not that there was a right or wrong answer to anything right now. Rosie began squirming in Mary's arms and she was forced to set her down. Her little toddler feet carried her right up to the stone and John saw her reflection in its glossy surface. She stood a few feet from it, staring intently at the letters she knew not how to read.

John approached her and crouched beside her, explaining what this place was and why they were here. "Your godfather is buried here, Rosie. I'm sure you've heard me talk about him. Your godfather and I used to go on crazy adventures together, and get into all sorts of trouble. Those stories I read to you sometimes, those are about us and everything we did. When you were very small, we'd visit him, though I doubt you'll ever remember that. You seemed to like him, and I know he liked you."

Rosie took a few tentative steps forward and gently grazed the surface of the stone with her fingers. John's heart melted at the sight and he felt tears prickling in his eyes. Mary stepped up and put her arm around his shoulder; the two of them stood admiring their beautiful daughter.

"Do you remember Sherlock, Rosie?" Mary asked.

"Lock," she chirped.

"Yes, that's right." Rosie turned and requested to return to her mother's arms. Mary kissed her on the cheek and John couldn't help but smile. "Let's give Daddy a little time by himself, okay?"

Once she left, John finally paid heed to the figure that had trailed him all the way from Baker Street. He usually tried to avoid interacting with it, but he thought he deserved to give in to the delusion today. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John before speaking, "So, today's the day. One full year."

"Yes. Stating the obvious, are we?"

"I thought I'd start with a neutral statement."

"Does that mean you're heading into much less neutral territory?"

"How perceptive of you. Yes, we have much to discuss."

"I've got all day."

"Wonderful. You've thought a lot about what this day will mean for you and everyone else who knew me."

"I suppose I have."

"Now that it's here, do those things ring true?"

"I won't know until we pass this mark. I suspect I'll be the only one to continue to hang on to you so tightly."

"Why is that?"

"Because you're my best friend. They're your friends too, but they didn't have what we have."

"Had, John. That's an important distinction."

"I know, but I like to think we still have a connection, even if you're not here to reciprocate properly."

"That's fair. But you do recognize that if you speak of me in the present tense with others, they may be alarmed, don't you?"

"Yes. I don't think I use present tense around others. Only when it's just you and me."

"Only when it's just you, John. I fear you're starting to forget that you are alone right now."

"You're making it difficult to remember that by being so damn realistic."

"What can I say, you have a very active imagination. Anyone who's ever read your blog will agree with me."

"That blog contains non-fiction accounts of our adventures. I didn't make that stuff up."

"Well, you certainly dramatized certain things," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

"I did not."

"In what way do I resemble a trained bloodhound? Is it the ears?"

"No, Sherlock," John groaned. "Only in dedication. Aren't you here for something more important than nitpicking my blog?"

"You said you had all day. What's a little digression?"

"I just don't want Mary to come back early and find me deep in the throes of an argument with empty space. Especially an argument about my writing skills."

"Fine. But I must say your letters nowadays are a big improvement."

"Really? Have you read them?"

"They are addressed to me, are they not?"

"No, they're not. They're addressed to Sherlock, not whatever twisted version of him you are."

"Very good, John. As I said, that's an important distinction. But tell me, how is Sherlock himself supposed to read them?

"It's more a symbolic thing. I have no idea if he can read them or not, wherever he is. I've never spent a lot of time contemplating the afterlife, and neither did he. But I must admit I do like to think of him as being Somewhere."

"Somewhere?"

"I don't know; it's hard to explain. But even if he can't read them, they're more for me."

"Okay." He hesitated before broaching the next subject, "And to my knowledge, you still haven't told Scott or Mary about me?"

"No, I haven't."

"Only Molly Hooper knows?"

"Yes.

"You don't see a problem with that?"

"No. She's a great secret keeper. You know that more than anybody."

"I didn't mean a problem with who knows, but a problem with who still doesn't know."

"No, it's not a problem."

"Yes, John, it is. Have you ever stopped to think that I'm the main reason you're at a standstill? You've told your therapist about everything else, and I commend you for that, but there's only so far he can take you if he's unaware of such pertinent information."

"If you were in my position, would you tell him?"

"You know I wouldn't deign to seek psychological help in the first place."

"Right, you'd just shoot up the first chance you got and hope an overdose would kill you."

"I would argue with that, but I fear you're correct. When it comes to facing one's problems, you're much more eloquent than I. But I've been telling you for a long time now that you need to 'spill the beans,' so to speak."

"You can't tell me what to do."

"Seeing as I'm inside your head, that makes absolutely no sense. I'm afraid you're the only one you can tell you what to do. Although Mary's pretty convincing, maybe I should consider speaking to her."

"You wouldn't dare."

"I would, but I can't. Alas, I am not an actual spirit who can haunt whoever he wishes. It's just you and me, forever and always."

"You're not sticking around forever, are you?"

"Who's to stop me? You?"

"Yes, me."

"Are you sure you're capable of such a thing? You've had a year to figure out how to exorcise me, and I'm sorry to say you've failed quite miserably."

"If you weren't such a stubborn git, I'd have banished you ages ago."

"John, it's your stubbornness, can't you see that?" John could see that, but he didn't want to. He wanted to blame this on someone else—anyone else. Anyone but himself. He took credit for so much, couldn't this one thing be someone else's fault, just this once?

"Fine," John growled. "If I admit to recognizing that, will you leave me alone?"

"You know the answer to that."

"No, then. Do I need to call Ghostbusters or something?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"You know what you need to do, but you refuse to do it."

"I don't want to tell Mary about you!"

"Why not, John! You're falling apart at the seams, and this is one thing you can do that might actually help!"

"Because if I tell her, she'll know that she's not enough! I may have lost you, but I still have her. But apparently my brain isn't satisfied with that, because it brought you back."

"John, you can't know that for sure."

"Yes, I can. There's no evidence to prove otherwise."

"But the first time, after the Fall, she saved you," Sherlock argued.

"To some degree. But we never got far enough, just the two of us. Who's to say I wouldn't have broken off the engagement after a couple weeks when I realized she wasn't enough to make me happy? Who's to say she wouldn't have broken it off when she realized I was unfixable? You came back into the equation before I could figure that out."

"John, you may be right, but Mary will understand. She knows what kind of man you are, and what our relationship meant to you."

"But if she knows how desperate I am, she'll feel even worse for her involvement with Norbury. And she deserves so much better than someone who can't appreciate her because he's hung up on his dead friend."

"John, you deserve better. You shouldn't have to hide this from your wife out of fear of how she'll react."

"I'm not afraid."

"Then please John, tell her."

"No."

"What will it take for you to realize you're making the wrong decision?"

"Nothing, because this is not wrong. I always did things your way, Sherlock, now you have to listen to me for once. I cannot tell Mary about this; it'll crush her. She's dealing with her own grief, and I can't compound hers with my own. She's entitled to recover without having to worry about me."

"John, I've always admired your selflessness, but I fear it will be your downfall. It's okay to not be okay."

"I'm fine," John insisted. He crossed his arms defensively and fixed Sherlock with a conversation-ending glare. They stood in a silent stalemate for several minutes before the detective sighed in defeat and turned away. John watched him with his jaw clenched in rage. Though he suspected Sherlock would eventually return, he still felt a pang of loss at his departure. He half-opened his mouth to apologize, but the tall, lanky silhouette had vanished.


	13. Precipice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is definitely the darkest part of the story, just thought I'd forewarn you, but nothing more than what's already in the tags

John glanced once more at the gravestone before him. Looking at the dates, he realized that he had no recollection of knowing Sherlock had been born on January the sixth. Could he really not have known his own best friend's birthday? It must've been on the first stone, which he'd stared at more times than he liked to acknowledge. He supposed his eyes never drifted beyond the stark lettering that read: Sherlock Holmes.

He turned away and headed back through the cemetery to rejoin Mary. His conversation with Sherlock's apparition kept replaying itself in his head, over and over and over again. Sherlock was right, of course, John really wasn't okay, but he wanted to keep pretending that he was for Mary's and Rosie's sake. They were more important than he was, and if keeping this secret kept them safe and happy, then he'd take it to his grave.

"Are you okay?" Mary asked him. He wanted to tell her no, that he hadn't been okay in a long time, but instead he nodded. He didn't know why. But Mary's next comment caught him completely off guard: "Because you look like you've seen a ghost." He felt all the blood drain from his face and plummet to his toes. Did she know something? Had she heard him talking to Sherlock? Why would she mention ghosts if she hadn't, she never talked about that sort of thing? His breathing picked up, and his nervousness only skyrocketed when she continued talking. "This place isn't haunted, is it?"

She definitely knew. John was in trouble now. He had to redirect her somehow, prevent her from pursuing this line of inquiry. He would spontaneously combust if she cornered him and forced him to talk about this. "Why would you think that?" He tried to sound nonchalant, but failed miserably. "Did you hear something strange?"

"No. Just you talking." Oh God, she'd heard him. She'd heard him have that conversation, and she was biding her time before going for his throat. Why was she prolonging his misery like this?

"You could hear me talking?" he asked tentatively.

"Only for a little bit, then I got farther away." John literally sagged with relief. She hadn't actually heard his conversation. She had no idea about Sherlock, and John was confident he could keep it like that for a while longer.

"Okay," he said. "Let's go now."

They returned home, and John could already feel the absence of his imaginary friend in the form of a cold stabbing pain between his shoulder blades. He'd been without Sherlock's illusion before, but this time felt different. They'd argued, and Sherlock had left while he was angry with John. He wanted desperately to call him back and resolve the conflict, but that wouldn't happen. Sherlock wouldn't return until whatever part of John's brain that had created him deemed it appropriate. He hoped that was soon.

John stumbled into the living room and headed straight for the photos on the bookshelf. Looking at them, seeing Sherlock as he was in life, only widened the chasm in John's heart. He picked up the picture of the two of them in front of Baker Street from the press thing Lestrade made them do. John could see in Sherlock's eyes how much he hated standing there for publicity's sake. He remembered the detective had been about to embark on a new case, but Lestrade had forbidden him from continuing until the photos were finished. Without John's conscious consent, tears rolled down his cheeks.

He abandoned the living room in favor of his bedroom. He needed to be isolated from Mary and Rosie right now, and they probably didn't want to be around him when he was in this state. He sat down on the edge of his bed and tried not to let memories of his old life overwhelm him.

But God, how he missed those days, when his biggest concerns were forcing food into a manic detective so he didn't collapse and keeping up with his deductions well enough to transcribe them into blog posts. He was hooked on that lifestyle as strongly as any addict was to drugs. His life now just felt like an eternal withdrawal, one with no respite. It had only been one year, and he was frankly miserable. How many more years would he have to live like this?

It was a boring, pointless existence, and he frankly didn't see a reason for it to continue. Mary was a wonderful mother and could handle Rosie on her own. Besides, they had a wonderful network of friends that could contribute to her care. John stood up and searched the drawer where he used to keep his gun. He wasn't planning to use it right then and there, but he wanted to feel the cool metal in his hands and remind himself that it was there as an option should he ever need it.

When the drawer proved devoid of firearms of any kind, he remembered that he took it with him when he moved in with Mary. He'd kept it safe over there, but he didn't know where it had transferred to during the move. He hadn't been the one to pack it from the old flat, Mary had. She must know where it was.

He went back downstairs and found her in the living room. He didn't pause to consider the repercussions of such a question when he asked, "Where's my gun?"

"What do you need it for?" the alarm in Mary's voice was evident. She was scared. She was scared because John was asking for a lethal weapon on a day they both knew was particularly fraught with triggers. Just hearing his wife's voice filled with such concern for him flipped a switch in John's brain. He couldn't leave her behind, especially not like that. He could not and would not do that to her. She'd already lost Sherlock to violence, and he would not be the reason she lost her husband the same way. But he still needed to know where she'd hidden it in case he needed it for something else.

"Where. Is. It?"

"Not here. I'll tell you where it is if you tell me why you need it."

"I can't." Now, he didn't even have a reason at all. He certainly couldn't tell her the initial reason or she'd freak out, and he couldn't do that to her.

"Why not?"

"You'll be angry," he said. If he told her the reason, she certainly would be, but he needed an excuse and he needed one now. He couldn't let her know how close he'd come to… doing something like that.

"John. I'm not angry. I'm concerned about you. I know today is tough, but you've been doing so well. You can't throw it all away." Okay, so she suspected he was planning to kill himself. She wasn't wrong, but he had to throw her off that trail.

"What?" he asked, feigning confusion. His brain still scrambled to come up with something, when his eye caught the holes in the wallpaper of the living room.

"John, I'm going to assume the worst unless you tell me what's really going on." Good, he'd convinced her he wasn't really suicidal. That was a step in the right direction. Now he needed a redirection. He pointed to the wallpaper and said,

"He used to take his frustrations out on the wallpaper. I thought I'd do the same." He was pretty damn proud of that quick thinking. It was a valid excuse that still conformed to everything he'd said earlier about possibly making her angry and needing a gun. He saw Mary's gaze flit to the floor and knew he wasn't going to like whatever answer she was about to give.

"John, the gun's not here," she explained.

"You said that already." He didn't need to know where it wasn't, he needed to know where it was.

"I know. But it's true. It's… gone. I got rid of it."

"Why?" John questioned. His wife, his assassin of a wife, was even more comfortable around guns than he was. She'd probably shot more people than he'd seen patients. What could have prompted her to dispose of it?

"I couldn't handle it. After what happened, I couldn't face having something so destructive in arm's reach. Especially with a baby around. I'm sorry, John. I should've asked you, but we were both so busy with the move that I took matters into my own hands."

He was somewhat taken aback, but he understood. Everything he'd seen that night at the aquarium, she'd seen too, and more. She'd watched Vivian Norbury fire a gun aimed at Sherlock's chest, had seen the blood and the life slowly leech out of him. It was enough to make anyone swear to never touch a weapon again.

"It's okay," he sighed. "Shooting up the walls isn't a good idea, anyway. I can see that now. Mrs. Hudson would have a fit; she thought she was through with that sort of thing." The same was true of suicides. It wasn't a good idea, anyway, and Mrs. Hudson thought she was through with that sort of thing. She'd already had to live through thinking Sherlock killed himself once, he knew she wouldn't be able to cope knowing John had gone the same direction.

"Are you sure? I know it was rather important to you."

"I'm sure," he stated. Now that he took the time to consider it, he agreed with Mary. After what happened, he never wanted to be associated with such a destructive tool ever again. Ever.

~0~

John awoke on May eighteenth knowing today was somehow important. It took him a few minutes to get his bearings and realize that it was their wedding anniversary. Their second wedding anniversary. He and Mary hadn't done anything for their first, and he knew she'd consider that a really big deal. He didn't even remember the day, but he knew why. That date had come so close on the heels of Sherlock's death that neither of them had been in a state to celebrate. But this year would be different.

"John, do you know what today is?" Mary asked him a little while later.

"Yes." They both knew what had happened last year, and they non-verbally agreed not to speak of it.

"Happy anniversary."

"Happy anniversary."

"I think we should do something tonight. We haven't had a date night in ages," Mary pointed out. She was absolutely right, of course, John couldn't even remember the last time they'd gone out to dinner or done anything that couples typically did. It was about time they rekindled their romance.

"You're right," John chimed. His voice took on an upbeat tone that he hadn't heard come from his own mouth in far too long. It was a pleasant change. "I'll ask Mrs. H if she'd be okay with watching Rosie for the evening."

"Okay," Mary returned his enthusiasm. John found himself looking forward to that evening like he'd never anticipated anything before. It just showed how starved for positivity they both were.

That night, John picked up Rosie and took her downstairs to Mrs. Hudson's flat. Of course, their landlady wouldn't allow him to drop and run without a conversation.

"I'm so glad you and Mary are finally getting to do something together," she said happily. "You really need to spend some time together without worrying about the baby."

"I wholeheartedly agree," John replied jauntily. "Thank you again for watching her."

"It's my pleasure, John. I hope you know that. She really is a lovely child."

"Yes, she's really something. Have a good evening, we'll be back soon!"

~0~

"I'm so glad we get to do this," Mary said. They were seated at a table for two in one of their favorite restaurants. Not the one from the night of the botched proposal—neither of them wanted to set foot there ever again. But it was nice nonetheless.

"Me too," John replied. He stared into her beautiful eyes and remembered their wedding day. How he wished they could return to that time when everything wasn't so desolate and complicated. Because behind those beautiful eyes, he could see the same internal suffering that he faced every day.

"How are you?" he finally brought up the courage to ask his wife how she was doing with everything that had been thrown at her in the past months. "I don't mean superficially, I mean truly: how are you handling this?"

"I'm mostly worried about you," she admitted. That wasn't what he was expecting; sometimes he thought she was slowly losing interest in him as passing time proved he would never be himself again. When she married him, she didn't sign up for this. Neither of them knew the trials and tribulations their relationship would be put through.

"About me?" he asked for clarification.

"Yeah. You haven't been yourself at all. Whenever you talk to me, I get this feeling that you're not telling me everything," she explained. Suddenly, John worried again that she was on to his conversations with Sherlock. He was careful, but honestly not that careful. It was highly possible that she'd heard him and had deduced what was going on. It was also possible that he was terrible at disguising his inner thoughts. Maybe his mannerisms and words had revealed that he was hiding something. But he didn't want her to know about Sherlock. If she had any doubt about this conclusion that John spoke to an illusion of his dead friend, he needed to fortify that doubt and convince her otherwise.

"Well, I don't know what to tell you," John admitted. Certainly not the truth. At least not all of it.

"I know it's unreasonable to expect you to be right as rain, but you haven't been improving as steadily as you were. Sometimes I even fear that you're regressing." Sometimes John feared the same thing. He wanted to improve, and he was trying, but some days the lack of Sherlock felt like a physical hole carved into his chest.

"I'm trying, Mary, I really am. But sometimes It's just hard to even get up in the mornings. Talking to Scott helps, but he can only do so much," John confessed. He hadn't lied yet, and he hoped to get through the evening without doing so. But if Mary forced his hand, he had few other options.

"You know that I'm always here for you, John," Mary said earnestly. "If there's something you can't or won't tell Scott, you can come to me." She really sounded like she knew about Sherlock, but he couldn't be sure. She was practically begging him to come clean.

"I know that, and thank you, but I don't want to be a burden." That exactly what he feared would happen if he admitted what was happening: Mary would become weighed down by John's inability to cope with this loss. And that's the last thing John wanted to happen.

"John, you could never be a burden even if you tried," Mary told him.

"Debatable," he replied. If he put his mind to it, John could most definitely burden her.

"No. It is absolutely not debatable," she snapped. "Have you forgotten that you're my husband? I made a vow to see you through sickness and health, and this certainly counts. If there's ever anything you want to get off your chest, please do not hesitate to come to me."

Okay, now she was literally begging him to come clean. But he still couldn't tell her. He didn't think he could get the words out even if he decided to tell her. But he knew his wife, and she would keep pushing until she got what she wanted. If she wanted a secret, that's what she would get. Fortunately for John, he had more than one up his sleeve.

"I cheated on you," he blurted out. It was certainly a big enough secret to satisfy her need for him to confess something. And it was really something that had been plaguing him almost as much as the Sherlock illusion issue. He watched he face morph from disbelief to shock to relief with about four hundred unknown emotions in between. "I know what you're thinking, but I hope you'll let me explain. You're entitled to just walk out right here, but please don't. Hear me out." He knew that his choice of phrase made the issue seem even bigger than it was, and he wanted the chance to tell her the whole story.

"Go on," she said reluctantly.

He started from the very beginning: "There was this girl on the bus. And I had a plastic daisy in my hair. I'd been playing with Rosie… and this girl just smiled at me. That's all it was; it was a smile. We texted constantly. You wanna know when? Every time you left the room, that's when. When you were feeding out daughter; when you were stopping her from crying—that's when," he let it all spill out of him like sand from a punctured bag. It was immensely relieving to get at least something off his chest, although he feared how his wife would react to learning of his infidelity. He was still angry with himself for giving in to such a childish desire for attention from a young woman when he was content with his current family. Maybe it was a sign that he hadn't been totally content. Whatever had happened with that girl, it was out of character for John. It was against everything he wanted to be as a man and as a husband, and he wished he could take it back. There were only two events in history he wished he could erase, and that was one of them. The other he didn't even need to specify.

"And then?" Mary asked. He knew she was waiting for him to detail how they'd hooked up at her house or something like that, but the story didn't progress in that direction. It had gotten far enough, and then John was so utterly disgusted with himself that he'd cut it off.

"That's all it was, just texting," he explained.

"It was just texting?" Mary asked disbelievingly.

"Yes."

"Do you still text her?"

"No. I broke it off," he explained.

"When?"

"Just before the incident." He didn't need to specify which incident. She knew. But then she started laughing. John couldn't understand why this was funny. Something like this would cause most women to seek a divorce, but Mary didn't seem angry.

"John, you do realize that you did next to nothing wrong, right?" she asked, still chuckling. What? Of course he'd done something wrong, he'd responded to the advances of another woman. He'd texted her all the time, had relished in reading whatever little memo she'd written to him.

"N—no?" He was utterly confused as to why she wasn't angry with him. He's almost prefer it if she was; that was a predictable reaction. He was completely off his guard right now.

"John, you texted her for a while, maybe the texts were a bit romantic, but who cares? Flirting isn't illegal. And then you felt so bad for being 'unfaithful' that you broke it off. You did everything right," Mary explained to him.

"But I didn't shut it down immediately."

"Nobody's perfect. The fact that you told me and that you seem so torn up about it makes up for all of that. Thank you for telling me. I hope now that this is in the open we can move past it and strengthen our relationship."

"So… you're not angry?" He still wasn't sure if this was an act to get him to relax so that the eventual outburst would hurt even more.

"Of course I'm not angry, stop being stupid. Besides, you seem to have punished yourself enough, you don't need me to be mad at you."

"Are you sure?" He was waiting for the eventual kicker, but he was losing his conviction that it was sure to come.

"Yes. You managed to forgive me for far more grievous sins than texting another woman, so it's only fair I forgive you."

"Only fair…" He supposed he had forgiven her for plenty of 'grievous sins.' She lied about her entire past life, she shot his best friend, she ran away across the globe to avoid them, and he'd forgiven her. He didn't really know why he was so desperate to make this relationship work, because many of those were truly unforgivable things. He remembered saying to her that, "The problems of your past are your business; the problems of your future are my privilege." How that had backfired. The problems of her future turned out to be a direct result of the problems of her past. But John still loved her. Despite all she'd done to him and to Sherlock, he still loved her. And she forgave him for doing what he'd thought was unforgivable. It was only fair.


	14. Honesty

"John, I need to tell you something," Mary announced one day. After their anniversary dinner and John's confession, things had thawed a bit. He felt more comfortable around her, less like he was walking on eggshells, and he hoped she felt the same. Sherlock's apparition hadn't returned to him since the argument in the cemetery, and he was somewhat okay with that—emphasis on somewhat. He knew this wasn't the end, he'd be able to feel it in his gut if it was, so he was prepared to make amends before saying goodbye forever. When that would be, he had no idea, and frankly, he didn't care. He was temporarily content.

"Sure. Anything," he told Mary. He wondered if his reveal had urged her to confess a secret of her own. He had no idea what she could still be hiding, but he didn't doubt it would be monumental if she preceded it by announcing she had something to tell him.

"After I saw how much Scott helped you, I decided to meet with him myself," Mary explained. "I've been seeing him for a while now, and he sort of made it my homework today to consider some things I ought to tell you."

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" John didn't consider seeing a therapist after losing a loved one to be any sort of 'deep dark secret.' Did she think this fact could cause discord in their relationship?

"Frankly, I don't know. It doesn't make any sense. But then again, neither of us have been making all that much sense lately." She had a point there.

"Fair enough," John relented. He supposed if she thought this was a big deal, he should be as supportive as possible. "But I'm glad you feel comfortable enough to tell me that. Has he helped?"

"Yes. He got me this far, didn't he?"

"It would seem so. Do you talk about me?" John asked. He wondered how many times his name had been brought up with Scott without his knowledge.

"Of course. You're a big part of my life. But he can't tell me anything you talk about with him because of confidentiality and all that. Don't you talk about me?"

"Yeah," John said. He and Scott discussed Mary sometimes, but not all that often compared to other things.

"There's another thing…" Mary hesitated. John wondered just how many secrets she would spill on this purge.

"Don't tell me you cheated on me," John chuckled. He knew that wasn't the case, but he thought the current situation could benefit from some humor.

"No. It's just—I'm worried about Mycroft," she admitted. Mycroft? John hadn't heard that name in ages. How often had Mary spoken to him since the incident? Did they meet up every Sunday for tea or something? John had barely even considered the elder Holmes since he barged through their door so long ago demanding grief counsel. John had given him what advice he could, but he himself had still been reeling.

"You're worried about him?" John let his shock come through full force in his tone of voice. "Mary, that man practically runs the country; I think he can take care of himself."

"John, he may run the country, but his real job was always looking after Sherlock. And the past few times I've spoken to him, he hasn't been himself. And I know him, he's not going to ask for help, he'll try to shove everything down and handle it himself, and it's not going to work. You and I both know it doesn't work." John was surprised at how concerned she was for a man he didn't even know all that well. But he thought she was correct in her assessment of how he would handle this situation. John remembered how he'd slammed up walls after letting them down briefly to let John know he was struggling. That was probably all the help he'd sought since losing his little brother, and John knew for a fact that wasn't nearly enough.

"Okay, I see your point," he told Mary. "But what are we supposed to do? Stage an intervention?"

"I wouldn't use that word, but essentially, yes."

"You want to force help upon Mycroft Holmes? That's a suicide mission." Mycroft could eat people alive if he set his mind to it—John had seen him do it before. If it turned out he didn't want their help, John feared neither he nor Mary would make it through unscathed.

"No, John, it's not," Mary assured. "He trusts us as much as he's ever trusted anyone in his life. You and I can talk some sense into him."

"Fine, but you're taking the lead on this." If Mary knew Mycroft well enough to be thinking about him at a time like this, then she probably knew him well enough to give him advice about how to handle his grief. John would stand in the background exclusively for moral support.

~0~

"Please, tell me why you've summoned me here," Mycroft instructed upon his arrival at Baker Street.

"We're worried about you," Mary declared. John was surprised at her forwardness, and he stood back and prepared to watch the imminent verbal sparring match.

"Why?" Mycroft asked.

"All three of us have been struggling this past year, and understandably so. John and I have both spoken to a therapist, and it has helped immensely," Mary explained. "I know you're well aware of opportunities like that, but I wanted to talk to you in person about whether or not you've taken advantage of them."

"Openly discussing my 'feelings' with a stranger is not exactly my style," he hissed.

"I know that. But these circumstances are different than any you've ever faced before. I remember when you came to John just a little while after it happened and asked him for advice. He told you that it just takes time, and it does. But quite a bit of time has passed, and from what I can tell you're not improving as you should be at this point."

"I assure you, I am fine—" Mycroft was interrupted when John decided to interject. He'd heard that word 'fine' from a Holmes' mouth far too many times to believe it. When a Holmes said they were 'fine,' it meant they were internally a mess but would rather ignore it in favor of whatever else they had on their mind.

"Don't give me that," John growled. "You and Sherlock both try to hide when you're hurt, and it always make things worse. Mycroft, I've been where you are, twice now. The first time, I tried to forget, and it didn't work, not even close."

"Different people handle grief in different ways."

"Yes, and how's that working out for you?" Mary questioned haughtily. Mycroft visibly deflated before them.

"No very well, huh?" John asked.

"No, not very well." Mycroft knew he was cornered.

"Have you tried to seek help?" Mary asked.

"No."

"Why?"

"Because I've never needed help before. I'm supposed to be able to handle things, to get others out of a tight spot. But evidently my abilities do not extend to helping myself."

"It's impossible to pull yourself out of a hole. You need someone at the top who can reach down and guide you back to the surface."

"I don't particularly enjoy metaphors." John knew from experience that speaking to a Holmes any way except literally was a fruitless endeavor. Figures of speech did not register in their brains.

"Then let me rephrase: You need someone else. You can't handle this all on your own, no matter how much effort you throw at it. It's physically and psychologically impossible," Mary affirmed.

"Now, is there something you think you should tell us? We're not therapists, but we've learned a lot in the past year," John said. He'd spent enough time with a therapist to pick up on at least a few of his methods, and he was sure Mary did the same.

"I feel… like I've failed," the elder Holmes mumbled. John's heart instantly clenched for this man who'd spent almost his whole life looking after someone who'd been crudely ripped away from him. "Ever since he was born, it was my job to protect him. And I failed. And now, I don't have a real purpose anymore."

"That's completely understandable." John frankly felt exactly like that sometimes. "But you need to understand that you didn't fail, Mycroft. You did everything you could, and it may have not been enough, but that doesn't mean that you could've done better. There are just some things that are beyond anyone's control. None of this was your fault. Got it?" First it had been Mary to blame herself for Sherlock's death, and it had taken her ages to pull herself out of that horrible mindset. John knew that no one person was truly at fault, except for maybe Vivian Norbury herself, but she was beyond his reach now. The last thing John needed was Mycroft Holmes insisting he was to blame.

"Have you visited the stone?" Mary then asked. John wondered where she was going with this line of inquiry, and listened intently to the next piece of the conversation.

"A few times."

"And what did you do those few times?"

"Nothing," Mycroft stated.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

"I think you should go back, and do something this time. Tell Sherlock something he didn't know when he was alive, something important. I've learned that clearing the air can be immensely helpful," Mary said. John quirked a smile at this comment, remembering how many confessions had been spilt in the past few weeks.

"Why should I speak to a block of stone?" Mycroft questioned. "It can't possibly hear me."

"Too literal, Mycroft. I don't care if you don't believe in Heaven or anything like that, you just have to speak as if he could hear you. Because the truth is, you don't know if he can or not. You will never know until you, too, eventually die. And if it turns out he did hear you, all the better." After this comment, John excused himself to make tea, as he was wont to do when he was stressed out.

"To be frank, even if I could hear him, I wouldn't want to listen."

John blanched, the sound of that voice leeching all the blood from his veins. Though he knew the vision wasn't finished torturing him, he didn't expect it to return so soon. There had been days he'd wished it would make an appearance, and days when he hoped he'd never see it again. No matter what John actually wanted, the apparition had a mind of his own. Sure enough, there in the corner stood the figure of Sherlock Holmes.

"Please don't let my brother come and bawl over my buried dead body, it would be terribly embarrassing," Sherlock chided. John clenched his teeth and tried not to growl back at him. There were too many people around to even attempt returning comments, so he suffered in silence and tried to continue with the tea. However, Sherlock wouldn't let him go that easily.

"Did he straighten the knocker on his way in? I'll bet he did. I want you to go and check after he leaves; check if the knocker's straightened," the illusion mused. "Unless you and Mary have been keeping it straight the whole time. Does Mary do that? John, does Mary keep the knocker straight or crooked? I remember you always leave it crooked because you close the door with the knocker instead of the knob. I don't know where you picked up that habit."

John tried to ignore his constant barrage of commentary, but Sherlock's voice was like an insect burrowing its way into John's head.

"I'm surprised you're even still in contact with my brother. Believe me, if I had a choice I would've abandoned him decades ago. Alas, 'family is family' and all that nonsense. But you do have a choice; he's just the annoying older brother of your dead best friend, so why is he still a part of your life?"

I don't know, John wanted to say. But he couldn't have an outburst here, not where Mary and Mycroft could hear him.

"John, it's getting rather lonely talking to myself. A monologue can only be so long before it becomes tedious. This is usually the point where another character butts in to either rebuke or corroborate him, but you're giving me nothing."

And John would continue to give him nothing until he vanished. Or so he told himself.

"Look, John, I know we had an argument last time we talked, but I need you to know that I forgive you. I understand why you don't want to tell Mary or anyone about me. I, more than anyone, know what it's like to hide something important from someone you love. I forgive you, John, can you forgive me? I'm sorry for pressuring you all this time; I'm just worried about you. But telling her about the cheating episode was a great step in the right direction, and I'm proud of you."

Still, John gave him nothing.

"John, please talk to me. I get that you're angry, and you have every right to be. You have so many reasons to be angry with me that it would take years just to list them all. But you've never been the silent treatment type of guy; you always made your anger well known to everyone in the room, and everyone in the room next door, and the building next door, and probably the next town over. I know how much you hate to keep your mouth shut. Remember the time you punched the super chief just for calling me names? One would've thought we were merely boys on a primary school jungle gym. Well, except for the subsequent hostage situation and fleeing through London. That was pretty intense, wasn't it?"

John's willpower snapped like a taut cable pulled just a centimeter too far: "Shut up!" The reminder of the events leading up to that fateful plunge from the rooftop had been too much for John to handle. If he couldn't have the real Sherlock, he didn't want this sorry knock-off his brain had conjured up. Talking to him was like reaching for a cookie that looked like chocolate chip, only to discover upon biting into it that it was actually oatmeal raisin: disappointing, disgusting, and just plain cruel.

John knew his outburst had been heard by both Mary and Mycroft in the living room, but neither of them made a comment. Maybe they assumed he wanted them to shut up, though he hadn't been paying a lick of attention to what they were saying. Sherlock smirked at him, relishing in his victory. John shot a glare at him and turned his back, though Sherlock simply took a few steps closer to remain in John's peripheral vision.

"Just shut up and, please, go away," John growled under his breath, too quietly to be heard in the other room.

"Didn't you want me to come back?" Sherlock asked innocently. "I feel like out last encounter was rather inconclusive, don't you? We ended on a pretty sour note, I wanted to make amends. Don't you want the same?"

"I want you to leave me alone. For good." John had firmly made up his mind on this topic. Last time, he'd felt a hint of regret when Sherlock turned away, but all hints of that were gone. Sherlock's apparition was holding him back from fulfilling the promise that the real Sherlock had made him swear: to move on and live his life. He was really trying, but this illusion kept getting in the way.

"Now, you don't mean that. You need me."

"I most certainly do not. I need real people."

"I'm not real?"

"No." John noticed that this version of the illusion was different than he'd appeared before. He used to remind John that Sherlock was dead and that this wasn't real, now he was trying to convince John he was real. That was definitely not a good sign. His own subconscious was coaxing him towards madness. But John refused to succumb.

"Fine. Have it your way," Sherlock grumbled. John blinked, and he was gone. Good riddance.

The tea finished, he poured three cups and gathered sugar and milk and brought it back to the living room. Mary and Mycroft evidently hadn't heard any of his conversation, as they didn't glare at him as if he was mad. They thanked him and resumed their conversation.

"How is Rosie?" Mycroft inquired genially. The child in question was currently on an outing with Molly, per the pathologist's request. They did this sort of thing every other month or so, and Rosie loved spending time with her godmother.

"She's doing great," John answered before Mary, desperate to refocus his mind on something sane. "She sleeps and eats pretty well for a child her age, and she seems happy most of the time."

"Yeah, her crying has really toned down in the past months," Mary added.

"I'm sure she'll grow into a wonderful adult with two parents such as you," Mycroft complimented.

"Thank you. We're certainly trying our best," Mary said. They sat in awkward silence for a minute or two before Mycroft excused himself, claiming work duties.

"You will heed our advice, won't you?" Mary allowed just the least bit of threat to seep into her tone of voice.

"Of course."

"I'll be checking in with you," she added with a slight incline of her head. This gesture seemed a bit strange, but John put it off as him misreading her. He could never deduce people like Sherlock could. They said their goodbyes, and saw the elder Holmes out the door.

"That was certainly productive," Mary told John after they returned to the living room.

"Yes. Did that ease some of your worries?" John asked.

"Yeah, some."

"I'm glad."

"I just couldn't bear to see him handle something like this all on his own. If we hadn't intervened, he might've just self-combusted from the stress of it all," she explained.

"Well, I'm not sure it was that severe, but we definitely pushed him in the right direction."

"Yeah. Thanks for your help."

"You're welcome."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think that oatmeal raisin cookie comparison is the best piece of writing I've ever created, just saying. I'm leaving lighthearted author's notes at the end of this chapter for a bit of comic relief because things are starting to spiral. I might temporarily increase my posting rate to get to the good parts sooner, and to make up for the week coming afterwards. I have midterm exams and a bunch of other stuff in the next two weeks, and there's a chance I won't find the time to sit down and put up a chapter. I will try my best, but I can't promise anything. Sorry.


	15. Arrival

Two years. It had been two years. Two years since his daughter last saw her godfather. Two years since DI Lestrade saw the man he'd helped save from the clutches of drug abuse. Two years since Mrs. Hudson saw her favorite tenant whom she treated like a son. Two years since Mycroft Holmes saw the younger brother he'd taken care of all his life. Two years since Mary saw the man who'd saved her husband's life. Two years since Vivian Norbury fired the shot that put her in prison for life. Two years since John's last conversation with his best friend. Two years since Sherlock Holmes's death.

It felt like forever ago that he'd held Sherlock's lifeless body and watched the light leave his eyes, yet it felt like just yesterday. Looking back, he wondered how he could've possibly spent two years without a manic detective dragging him all over London at all hours of the day and night. He'd never enjoyed a benign existence, so how had he survived for two years like this? Frankly, he didn't know.

He and Scott had discussed this impending anniversary in great depth because of its significance surrounding Sherlock's first death. This was supposed to be the point beyond which everything began to get better as he relinquished even subconscious hope that Sherlock would somehow return to him. Once he moved past today, that realization would sink in. But today, he would speculate how the detective might sneak back into his life.

He pictured the detective appearing at their front door disguised as a package delivery man. Or stopping by pretending to be an obtuse potential client who, for whatever reason, hadn't gotten the news of Sherlock Holmes's death in the two years since it occurred. Or utilizing Mycroft to ensure John was required to be somewhere and acquiring a cabbie's job for the day. John just imagined glancing up at the mirror to see a reflection of that long face with those angular cheekbones staring back at him. He'd tip that cabbie everything he owned.

John spent the day in a state of heightened anxiety, peering around corners before rounding them, opening doors obscenely slowly, and constantly looking over his shoulder. Rationally, he knew Sherlock was well and truly dead and wouldn't miraculously return to him, but then again, that's how he'd felt last time. The performance had been so utterly convincing that John spent those two years believing his best friend committed suicide. Why would this time be any different? Because he'd seen it happen with his own two eyes? Because he'd seen the blood stain the ground beneath him? Because he'd felt for a pulse and found none? He'd done all those things the first time, yet Sherlock still found a way. The clever arse.

Was it so inconceivable that he'd faked it again?

No, a part of John's mind claimed.

Yes, another part insisted.

The second part was supposed to win this internal argument, but it didn't. At least not immediately. Maybe the wound had been fake, and Sherlock took some sort of drug that gave the appearance of death like in Romeo and Juliet. Maybe the person who died in that aquarium wasn't Sherlock at all, but a twin brother he'd kept a secret from John, and the real Sherlock was off somewhere on another top secret mission.

"It's never twins," Sherlock's voice echoed in John's head. He glanced around the room for the illusion (or the real Sherlock magically resurrected), only to find it empty. That comment had been all in John's head. This internal monologue probably lasted for hours, not that John bothered to keep track of time. He just sat and thought; then, when his muscles grew stiff, he relocated to a new location and sat and thought some more. He and Mary had no interaction whatsoever, and he was fine with that. She recognized that he needed space today and obligingly gave it to him. He couldn't ask for a more beautiful, understanding, accommodating wife. Despite her past, she truly had everyone's best interest at heart and was willing to sacrifice to ensure others' happiness and safety.

He briefly considered visiting the cemetery as he'd done the first year, but decided against it. He didn't want to face a place that emotionally reeked of grief and loss, and he had no desire for a repeat of last year's argument with his own subconscious's creation. It just wasn't worth it.

However, he did go through with pulling the violin out of the closet to let it breath. He knew he should do this more often if the instrument was to remain in good condition, but he didn't have the heart most days. But on a day like today, seeing the polished wood helped him to feel connected. This instrument contained more of Sherlock's spirit than any block of marble over a hole in the ground ever could.

He also went through his blog and read every single post from day one. It took ages to get through them all, but he relished in the fond memories that each explanation aroused inside of him. He often read the cases to Rosie as bedtime stories because he thought she ought to know what her godfather did for a living and how exactly her dad was involved. Mary didn't approve, and John knew that, but he continued anyways because it was important to him. She didn't care strongly enough to actively oppose him on this, so the bedtime murder stories continued. But there were a few posts that weren't cases that he'd never read to Rosie that he read today: stupid ramblings, in-between moments, and even a post that has been hijacked and written by Sherlock.

After that, he visited Sherlock's blog, the Science of Deduction, and read it in its entirety, something he'd never done before. He'd attempted it on several occasions while Sherlock was still alive, but had never managed it. Sherlock's writing style was practically barbaric in its straightforwardness. He described things exactly as they were in excruciating detail without adding any figurative language or embellishment to make it more entertaining. John had never known Sherlock to work with anything that could be considered 'figurative.'

Still, John read every single word of that blog. Each topic unearthed a memory of the detective utilizing the exact technique he'd just described. It made John wonder how much of this ability he'd been born with, and how much he'd acquired through years of study and practice. Sherlock liked to make people think it was the former, that it all came ridiculously easy to him, but John suspected he'd put in more efforts into attaining his abilities than he let on.

Another thing John did that day was drink, but he only gave in to the craving once Mary had vacated the flat. He hadn't allowed himself to get well and truly drunk since the incident, but his willpower was crumbling. He reasoned that Mrs. Hudson was taking care of Rosie so he had no responsibilities today, and therefore was permitted to drink himself out of his right mind. He loathed to admit it, but it felt so good to lose himself in that oblivion. It hindered his brain function enough that he could almost forget why he felt this gaping hole in his heart.

He knew that Mary saw what he was doing today, and he wondered if she even cared. Maybe she could tell that he needed this, just one day where he didn't have to think clearly about all he'd lost in his life. On the surface, one would think he'd led a pretty contented life, but when he really sat down to think about it, fate had not been kind to John Watson.

His parents shouldn't have been allowed to have children. If somehow there was a necessary license, he was sure they wouldn't have been able to obtain one. Not that they were abusive, but they had little idea how to properly raise children. Dad was always drunk and surly, and Mum often failed to realize she even had two children to take care of. John remembered struggling to get signatures on forms for school because his parents couldn't be bothered. He'd learned to forge them pretty early in life. Harry and John practically raised each other.

He'd entered the army to get away from Harry. That's not the reason he gave people when they asked, but he knew it was true. Sure, he wanted to help people and his country, but he also needed an escape from her downward spiral. If he hadn't left, she would've dragged him down with her.

Then, of course, he got shot. He knew it was a risk when one went to an active combat zone in Afghanistan, but for a long time, he was convinced injuries were things that happened to other people out there. He was the doctor; his job was to patch people up and save their lives. He wasn't supposed to need saving. But, inevitably, he had. He'd treated more bullet wounds than he could count, held pressure to stop bleeding, applied tourniquets, calmed young soldiers and told them to breathe through the pain. If he'd known how much it hurt, he wouldn't have wasted his time with silly platitudes like that. The screaming agony in his shoulder had made it nigh on impossible to breathe.

He'd fought to stay in the army after he healed up a bit, but he knew it was hopeless. An honorable discharge and a pension later, he found himself back in London, hobbling around with a cane for a limp that had no physical cause. The rest was history.

"Yep, my life has kinda sucked," he muttered to himself, taking another sip of his drink. He'd lost count ages ago, but it didn't matter. If he passed out, then he'd stop.

He wondered how similar Mary's story was to his. He knew some of the part in the middle, the position as a freelance agent, but he knew nothing of what came before. It seemed she had appeared on this planet fully formed and combat ready, instead of been born and grown up like a normal person. He knew literally nothing about her childhood. That would present a problem in most marriages, but John found he couldn't care less. It was probably a typical, boring childhood.

Typical. Boring. Both of those words pretty much described his current lifestyle. The old John would have detested it, but this John found he didn't have the energy to mind. The tiny rational portion of John's brain told him that since he was a father now, he should be able to enjoy simple domesticity. And he did, but he yearned for his old life at the same time.

"You could still have it, you know." John knew the apparition would be making an appearance today, but part of him had hoped he was too drunk to properly conjure him up. A quick glance proved him completely wrong. If anything, the figure appeared even more defined and realistic than usual.

"Have what?" John retorted bitterly.

"An exciting life. You just have to make your own excitement."

"By doing what? Recklessly chasing after criminals with no regard for my own personal safety?" John spat. Sherlock had endangered himself far too many times for John's liking. He probably had an ulcer from the sheer stress of it all. There had been plenty of trauma wounds from his handling of criminals, but none had discouraged the detective in the least. It had taken a fatal bullet wound to the chest to get him to stop.

"Maybe. John, I know you. As much as you hated the danger of that part, that's what made it so exhilarating. The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins, just the two of us against—"

"Stop!" John recognized the exact phrasing he'd used on the night he came back from the dead and crashed John's date. He couldn't handle listening to that on a normal day; today it was ten times worse.

"You don't want to admit it, but it's the truth."

"So what if it is? There's nothing I can do about it. I don't have your propensity for solving crimes, and I never will."

"Fine, I give up," he relented. "You can just live out the rest of your life in misery."

"Maybe I will, no thanks to you," John growled.

"This wasn't my fault! Was it your fault when you got shot?"

"Actually, it was!" John was angry now. He was always quick to enrage when he had a decent amount of alcohol flowing through his veins. "I voluntarily went to Afghanistan, knowing full well it was dangerous! I knew I could possibly get shot, but I did it anyway. Had I decided I didn't want to risk that, I wouldn't have gone in the first place. You did the same thing: knowingly threw yourself into a dangerous situation. It just so happened Norbury had better aim than some Afghan rebels."

"I suppose you're right," Sherlock said with impossible calm. In John's state, a soothing tone of voice only served to instigate him further. If he was mad, Sherlock had no right to be level-headed.

"Why did you never change? Sherlock, you had a goddaughter, you had people in your life who cared about you and needed you, yet you still threw your life around like it was dispensable! How could you do this to us? To me?"

"It was the only way I knew how to live, John. I am an intransigent man. I spent the majority of my life knowing that my death would affect exactly one person, and I couldn't care less what I did to him because I hated him. For most of my life, I hated my big brother. Maybe I did some of the things I did simply to worry him, and that habit of endangering myself refused to die when I added others to my circle."

"You were addicted. You were able to quit the drugs, but this one ran even deeper," John commented.

"Yes, I believe that is a very eloquent way to put it."

"But wouldn't you care if you died? Didn't you want to live to solve another mystery?"

"No. I was fed up with the tedium of existence. I lived from murder to murder, desperately filling the dry moments in between with stupid hobbies. My brain needed something to work on lest it implode. It's come pretty damn close a few times, but fortunately you never saw me like that."

"I'm so honored to know I never had the pleasure of seeing you at your worst. How noble of you to keep it together for my sake."

"I didn't keep it together for you, I kept it together because of you. I could never sink that low with your influence. You keep me right."

"And is this you returning the favor?" John asked drily.

"I suppose so."

"Well, you're doing a bloody brilliant job of it. Sherlock, I'm losing my goddamn mind talking to you like this. You're a fucking hallucination!"

Sherlock completely ignored this accusation, "I have what you need, John," he announced instead.

"Please, tell me what it is that I so desperately need."

"As I said earlier, you crave excitement. I can provide that for you."

John clenched his eyes shut, praying that when he opened them Sherlock would be gone. This was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong in every way. He was not the first man to lose his best friend. Many had come before him and managed to get over it, so why was this so hard? Here he was, listening to an imaginary friend insisting he could provide everything John had ever needed. It was certifiably insane.

"John, will you let me help you?" Sherlock asked earnestly. John refused to open his eyes and acknowledge him. If he kept them shut, he could pretend he was just hearing voices. It was all in his head—it wasn't real. But the apparition looked like Sherlock, sounded like Sherlock, and even acted like Sherlock. But moments later, another voice joined Sherlock's, a voice that caused a total ceasefire in John's brain. The voice that had taunted, teased, and threatened both John and Sherlock for so long, the voice that had been behind almost every foe they'd faced since the beginning of their relationship, the voice that had infiltrated every screen in the country to announce it reemergence.

"John, you've got to let us help," Sherlock repeated. Us.

"Yes, John, you're in quite the predicament, aren't you?" the new voice purred. "You could use a little nudge in the right direction. A nudge which we will gladly provide." John would recognize that voice anywhere; it had haunted his dreams both waking and sleeping for far too long.

Moriarty.


	16. Retrograde

"So, it's been two years," Scott remarked.

"Yes, it has."

"The anniversary was…"

"Two weeks ago." The memory of that day was all too fresh. Neither of them had handled it well. They'd been forced to leave poor Rosie with Mrs. Hudson just to ensure she'd actually be taken care of. And what had eventually transpired… it was enough to make anyone shiver.

"I know that must have been a very difficult day for both of you, even more difficult than the one year mark," Scott sympathized. Had the therapist ever lost a friend as close as Sherlock? Even if he had, he'd certainly never done it twice. How was it possible for someone to be so empathetic without a comparable experience? Maybe this uncanny ability to relate to people was why he decided to become a therapist in the first place. It certainly made him a damn good one.

"Yes, it was really hard. But from here on out things will pick up. Up until then, there was still some hope, you know? Even though I saw it happen, I also knew that he'd faked it once and made it seem realistic, then magically reappeared after two years. The window for miracle reappearance has now closed."

"How have things been in the weeks since then?"

"I think better? There's no easy way to quantitate it."

"What about the nightmares? Have they eased?"

"Actually, yes." The dreams had lessened in frequency over the past two weeks, and that was long enough to declare a decreasing trend instead of a natural lull that would eventually resurge. It was pleasing to realize that something measurable had actually improved. And seeing less of Charles Augustus Magnussen was enough to make anyone smile. "I've slept through the night all but twice since the anniversary."

"That's fantastic," Scott said. "Now, I have to ask, do you think that's entirely due to the passing of that milestone, or have some of the things we've talked about helped?" Was he asking for feedback on his own performance as a counselor?

For most of their sessions, they'd focused on blame and guilt. Scott didn't know everything, because there were some things that couldn't be disclosed without endangering the family, but he knew enough. They'd talked about unnecessary deliberating over what could've been done differently. Scott said jumping in front of the bullet was never a feasible option, and that it only happened in movies. They also worked on seeing things from Sherlock's perspective, how he would've thrown himself into the case no matter what anyone said simply because it was interesting and it mattered to him. He would do anything to protect John and Mary, even if it cost him his life—which, of course, it ultimately did.

Things had been an utter mess for a long time, but they probably wouldn't have reached this point without Scott's help. Two years worth of grief alone was not sufficient to fix everything that had shattered on that fateful night at the aquarium. There was still much work to be done, but Scott had been instrumental in helping along the way. "You've definitely helped. I think things have eased both because of your advice and the passing of two whole years. Time and guidance, that's all anyone really needs, isn't it?"

"It's possible. It's a tried-and-tested formula for handling a lot of things."

"Very true." Silence reigned for a few moments, neither person in the room having anything to add for the moment. Scott was clearly sitting on a question; it was rather obvious what he wanted to ask next, but he may have been afraid to. It had been the subject of the majority of their conversations, but in today's context the answer to his question held far more importance than ever before.

"How's John?" Scott finally inquired.

Mary thought on this for a while, about what the answer would've been just before the two-year anniversary. John was not fine, not even close. She'd watched him closely over the past two years, and she knew that he was a changed man. The current John Watson was not the man she'd initially met, nor was he the man she'd married. He was a shadow of his former self, a man forged in the fire of repeated tragedy, a man forced to suffer the repercussions of his own danger addiction, and a man worn down by the trials of an indifferent universe. Mary herself suffered similarly, but she deserved it. She'd chosen this path for herself, knowing full well the strife it would inevitably herald. John had been dragged through life by a chain of events mostly beyond his control. He deserved so much better than the hand he'd been dealt. He deserved Sherlock, the only person she'd ever seen able to make her husband happy.

But recent events had changed that. John had seen Scott mere days ago to confront the revelation that had occurred on the anniversary. Since then, he'd been infinitely better. "John is… improving," she decided to say. This was true; he was improving as much as one could hope. He'd opened up to Mary, but the one person he really needed to talk to was no longer here. He'd been gone for two years. Two bloody years separated John Watson from his best friend, and the gap was only widening. Mary should have tried harder to fill those years, to distract John from the chasm in his heart. But, she'd failed as a wife. Especially after one year, she'd grown frustrated with his refusal to improve, and she knew he could tell. She hadn't done anything helpful until two weeks ago. For a while, she'd treated him horribly. There were so many things she could've done differently. So. Many. Things.

~0~

Two Years Ago:

She knew this would happen. She knew it was a risk, to enter someone's life, dragging her past behind her by a string she wished could sever. But she had taken that risk in the hopes that her skills could protect the man she loved from the demons that trailed her. For a while, it had worked, until Magnussen forced her to reveal her hand. Then with Ajay's reappearance, everything had spiraled out of control. She tried—she tried so hard—to protect them, but even fleeing the country hadn't freed them from the ghosts of her past.

Now she stared down the barrel of a gun that wouldn't be there if she'd just done the right thing and stayed away. A gun that was pointed at the chest of her husband's best friend.

She herself had once been in Vivian Norbury's position, prepared to shoot the great Sherlock Holmes. She'd had very few alternatives, and she trusted the detective's resolve enough to know he'd pull through. It was far too close for comfort, and she certainly hadn't expected him to run off and nearly bleed out again from tearing his sutures, but John had forgiven her. He hadn't even been angry, which frightened her. She expected him to yell, possibly even hit her like he had Sherlock when he'd risen from the dead. God knows she deserved it. But he'd just accepted it with a sort of grim apathy. If Sherlock hadn't made it through, John's reaction would have been quite different, and Mary was infinitely thankful it hadn't come to that.

Then Vivian Norbury fired. Suddenly, it had come to that.

Mary knew it was over before the bullet even struck. This was not a calculated shot to incapacitate—Vivian aimed to kill. The policemen restrained her within seconds, and Mary ran to Sherlock, instinctively putting pressure on the wound even though she knew it wouldn't do much good. The former assassin and the detective met eyes, and they instantly knew what was going to happen. They were both about to witness John Watson relive his worst nightmare. Sherlock's gaze was pleading, and Mary wished she could do something, anything, to alleviate the physical agony and the emotional that was sure to follow when John arrived.

Mary saw John enter out of the corner of her eye, and braced herself for the emotional firestorm ahead. She considered forcing him out, knowing how much these next few minutes would hurt him, and thinking maybe it would be better if he didn't have to watch. But she couldn't deny him this time with Sherlock. To do so would be heresy. Honestly, she herself wanted to run away and pretend none of this ever happened. Pretend that she hadn't brought this tragedy upon John and Sherlock, pretend that she wasn't equally as guilty as the woman who fired the shot.

But she needed to be here for John. She stayed put as he approached them and saw the exact moment that he, too, realized the futility of the situation. He'd walked in here just to watch his best friend die. He crouched by Sherlock's right side, and frantically looked him up and down. "Jesus, no," she heard him mutter. Mary felt Sherlock perk up at John's presence, readying himself for the most important conversation of his life.

"John," the detective muttered, voice hopelessly meek. Mary watched her husband force himself into a stable state of mind. The meltdown would come eventually, and she'd deal with it when it inevitably arrived. But she knew John would want to maintain some semblance of strength for Sherlock's sake.

"Shhhh, you're okay. You're okay," he assured. Without needing to ask, he took over the job of keeping pressure from Mary. She surrendered to him, understanding the intimacy of the moment. "Remember last time?" She internally winced at the reference to that incident. "They fixed you up and you ended up fleeing from hospital."

"Not like last time," Sherlock insisted, shaking his head. To be shot not once, but twice in such a short time span was ridiculously unfair. Nobody deserved that. And Mary was responsible, however indirectly, for both injuries. She might collapse under the sheer force of the guilt that was slowly building inside her.

"Okay. Okay," John assured.

"John?" Mary could feel Sherlock's strength fading by the second. Never before had she heard him sound so vulnerable. He asked John to make sure he wasn't taken to the morgue at Bart's, where their friend worked. If Mary were in Sherlock's position, that would be the last thing on her mind. The detective really did have a heart, and he cared more than most people Mary had known in her lifetime. He was sorely misinformed when he told people he was a sociopath.

"Sherlock, you made a vow," John began. Mary anticipated the waterworks, and they followed soon after. Seeing the first tears fall from John's cheeks was too much for Mary, and she felt her own eyes burning. Soon enough, both Watsons were weeping uncontrollably. Somehow John managed to get words out through the continuous stream, "You said… you said you'd always be there… whatever happens." Mary actually flinched upon hearing this. It was a harsh reminder of the promise Sherlock had made to them at their wedding. A promise that would've been easily kept if Mary had been the normal woman John thought he'd married. But she wasn't. She was a former assassin with dangerous enemies, and the two men she cared for most in the world had gotten caught in the crossfire. Sherlock was only one of many casualties of her lifestyle.

"You'll still… have Mary," Sherlock said. He was right, but Mary wasn't sure John would even want her when this was all over. And she couldn't blame him. She'd endangered Sherlock's life once before, and now she'd gone and snuffed it out. She would understand if John hated her. She'd be devastated, because she truly loved him, but she'd understand.

"But I want you too." Mary sighed internally upon hearing John say, "too." She feared he would say something along the lines of, "I'd rather have you." The fact that he didn't say so meant he still loved her. But John Watson deserved better than Mary. He certainly didn't deserve someone who constantly put him in danger and murdered his best friend. He deserved Sherlock Holmes, but one bullet had taken that away from him.

Sherlock then apologized to John. For what, Mary didn't quite understand. He was not at fault in any way, shape, or form. At least ninety percent of the blame in this situation fell to Mary. Nevertheless, he apologized. Then he turned his icy stare to Mary and instructed, "Look after him."

Mary first met John in the throes of severe depression brought on by Sherlock's staged death. Every time she looked at him, she saw what was missing more than what remained. He claimed that meeting her helped, but he'd still been a shadow of his former self. She was there for him on some of the worst days, when he'd wake up screaming from another nightmare or be too emotionally exhausted to even get out of bed. He'd grieved for two years, and was rewarded with a miracle. When Sherlock returned, Mary finally saw John Watson for who he was supposed to be. Now that she knew the real John, she didn't want him to revert to who he'd been without Sherlock. But it appeared she didn't have a choice.

"I will," she promised, squeezing Sherlock's hand. She knew it wouldn't be easy, that John would be beyond inconsolable, but she would try her best to keep him safe and healthy. She couldn't promise to keep him happy. Mary could keep John content, but only Sherlock could make him happy.

"John, take care of Rosie," Sherlock requested. Mary watched more tears fall from her husband's face, mixing with the blood now pooling on the floor beneath them. She knew Sherlock saw John's escalating distress, and he told him, "You'll be okay."

"No I bloody won't!" John shouted. Mary knew he was right. John would never be okay, not after this. He'd never fully recover from witnessing his best friend die in his arms. A sense of foreboding descended over Mary—the end was near. Sherlock's last breaths were spent making John promise to move on with his life.

That may have been the worst possible thing for him to say. Mary knew John, knew his undying loyalty and desire to please. He would try to move on because Sherlock asked him to, but he would spend every moment of every day wishing Sherlock were here to spend it with him, and then he'd hate himself for failing to keep his promise. Mary was almost mad at Sherlock for requesting the impossible.

She watched his eyes flutter closed, and bit her lip to keep from crying out in distress. John cradled Sherlock's hand, fingers poised over the radial pulse. Mary watched him mouth the numbers between breaths. He got to eleven before he stopped. He frantically checked again, then moved to Sherlock's neck and checked again. Mary would've given anything to trade places with Sherlock right now. A bullet to the chest would be less painful than watching John fall apart like this. And in all likelihood, her death would haunt him less. She may be his wife, but Sherlock was more than that.

John let out a strangled whimper that shattered Mary's heart. The force of the grief behind it was like a physical slap to the face. He crawled closer and drew Sherlock's limp form against him, letting the detective's head rest on his shoulder. Mary took a step back, not wanting to interfere. John clung to Sherlock like a child to a security blanket. It would've have been somewhat adorable if it weren't for the bloodstains indicating Sherlock's state. They remained there for what felt like eternity, when John started rambling.

I've really lost my mind this time," he tutted. "Sherlock, why aren't you calling me an idiot? Right, 'cuz you're dead." At that comment, John started to laugh. It sounded foreign to Mary's ears. How could anyone laugh at a time like this? But soon after, the laughter died away and was replaced by gross sobbing. If possible, John clung even tighter to the body, hiding his face in Sherlock's shoulder.

Eventually, paramedics arrived at the scene. Mary had seen Mycroft call them, and she'd known they would be too late. Even if they'd gotten here earlier, there was little they could've done. She immediately saw their discouragement at the situation before them. No lives would be saved today, not here, not now. Their new job was to remove a corpse. They glanced between John and her several times, probably attempting to piece together what the hell happened in the minutes before. Mary shook her head, and they seemed to understand it was far too complex.

Mary looked at John, still clinging to Sherlock's lifeless form. She wanted to leave him be, to give him more time, but she couldn't. What she really wanted was to bring Sherlock back, but they were beyond that now. This death was for real. "John, you need to let go," she encouraged.

"No," he insisted, pulling the body closer to his shaking form. Mary bit her lip and braced herself for the coming battle. She didn't want to force John away from Sherlock, but the alternative was letting the police restrain him while the medics handled the body. That would only be an additional trauma, one that she could prevent.

"John. You have to let him go." She was referring to physically releasing him, but her words could have been interpreted otherwise. He would need to let go emotionally as well, but that would take much longer. She'd known John at the two-year mark, and he was still fettered by his grief for Sherlock.

"No."

"John," Mary coaxed, approaching her husband slowly. She sat down opposite him and hoped the gesture was somewhat comforting. Evidently, it was, as he relinquished his death grip and buried his face in his knees. The paramedics seized their moment and removed Sherlock's painfully still, bloody form from the room. Mary couldn't help but follow their motions with her gaze. Once they left, the room felt despairingly empty of life. In the tank across from her, a shark swam parallel to the glass, its beady, black eye scanning the room. She shivered, suddenly cold despite being pressed up against John.

She briefly met eyes with Mycroft before he scampered away. They'd never gotten along superbly, but nobody deserved to lose his little brother like that. She hoped he didn't blame her, although he had every right to. It was her fault, wasn't it? Most certainly. Before she knew it, only she and John remained in the room. He still hadn't removed his head from atop his knees, and he wouldn't unless prompted.

"John, we have to go now," she whispered gently. He didn't respond, didn't even twitch. If she couldn't hear his stunted breathing, she would've thought that he, too, had died. She turned to face him and took his hand in hers, squeezing it to let him know that he wasn't completely alone. Not that it really mattered. "John, I need you to stand up." For a moment, she feared he wouldn't move and she'd have to carry him out of the building. She didn't doubt that she could, physically, but emotionally she couldn't handle lugging him outside. Fortunately, some part of John's brain was still engaged, and he slowly rose to his feet.

Mary took one look at his glazed-over eyes and knew that absolutely none of this would register in his memory. His mind was elsewhere—hopefully somewhere a bit cheerier. She took his hand and guided him towards the exit. He followed her robotically, his steps matching hers exactly. Once out on the sidewalk, she hailed a cab and guided John inside before entering. She gave the cabbie their address and resigned herself to the most awkward, painful ride of her life. John stared out the window, sitting inhumanly still.

When they arrived at home, he trailed her inside like a stray dog mindlessly following its nose towards the faint scent of food. He stood vacantly in the entryway, as if he realized he'd wandered into the wrong flat. Mary reached for his hand to take him to bed, but then she noticed the red film coating his right hand from fingertips to wrist: Sherlock's blood. Instead, she coaxed him towards the bathroom and drew his hand into the sink. Working quickly but thoroughly, she scrubbed every last inch of his hand until not a hint of red or pink remained. While she manipulated his hand, John stared blankly at the mirror and tilted his head at odd angles. It appeared he didn't even recognize himself. When she finished, she double-checked her handiwork and gently dried John's skin with a towel. She made to leave the bathroom, but he didn't follow her; his gaze was still fixed on his own reflection. She took his hand once again and guided him towards their bedroom.

She checked the state of his clothes and debated whether she needed to change them before she put him to bed. A few stray bloodstains coated his shirt, so she asked him if he could remove it. Her words didn't even register. John stood in the middle of their room, wringing his hands, eyes completely devoid of signs of thought. Mary sighed and pulled it off herself. John made no move to help her, but nor did he resist. He just stood there. Mary grabbed a T-shirt from the drawer and eased it over John's head. He allowed her to manipulate his limbs without even a hint of registration of her presence. Mary began to worry; dissociating was not a good sign, but given the circumstances, she could understand. She'd give him until tomorrow to come back to himself before she started to panic.

She didn't even bother instructing him to go to bed, just gently pushed him towards it and helped him settle down. He probably wouldn't sleep, but she didn't want him upright much longer in case he passed out. Knowing she couldn't settle down, she grabbed the bloodstained shirt intending to apply stain remover and wash it. But as she stood over it, staring at these flecks of red that shouldn't be there, she almost lost it. Even if the stains came out, she knew John would never wear it, and she didn't want to see it on him. She tossed the shirt in the trash.

She couldn't go back to her room to watch John, seeing him like that just broke something deep inside her, but she couldn't leave. He was in no state to be left alone, and probably wouldn't be for a few days, maybe weeks. She frankly didn't trust him. Having no other options, she settled down on the sofa where she and John had been sitting not so long ago—just before they got the texts that beckoned them to the final battlefield. She knew it was a mistake, forcing herself upon civilians. But when she met John, a part of her that she hadn't felt in years lit up like a Christmas tree. The promise of a normal life had been too much to resist, and she'd fallen in love with it almost as much as she'd fallen in love with John Watson.

She herself could handle loss; she'd been forced to do so many times. But when her actions caused someone else—someone she loved—suffering? Unacceptable. She never should have allowed herself a normal life; that one lapse in willpower had cost her everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be honest, how many of you were totally thrown when it turned out to be Mary? Did anyone suspect it before I gave it away? What was the biggest hint? I tried to stage it like the scene at the end of the Six Thatchers, where we thing it's John talking to Ella and it turns out to be Sherlock. It was a bit harder to illustrate in writing, but I think I managed it. Out of every moment in this entire story, this is the one I was most excited about :)


	17. Insufficiency

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're about to embark on one of my favorite writing techniques: using a new perspective. The chapters to come will have novel thought processes, unique insights, and what are essentially 'deleted scenes.' Needless to say, there are a lot of things that have been going on right under John's nose (and all you readers' noses as well) that are crucial to the storyline.

Mary didn't sleep a wink. Not that she expected to. She sat on the sofa for hours staring at the wall ahead of her and contemplating (regretting) her life choices. Everything that had happened in the past few days was entirely her fault. She had crudely inserted herself into the lives of two innocent men, she had failed to sever all ties with her past, she and she alone had brought this suffering upon John and Sherlock. How was she supposed to raise a child if she couldn't even keep two grown men safe?

Once her thoughts wandered to Rosie, she remembered that Molly had taken her in while Mary and John set off after Sherlock. Oh God, she had no idea what had transpired. All she knew was that there was a case requiring John, Sherlock, and Mary's presence. How was she supposed to break the news to the poor pathologist? How could she ever explain this? Mary didn't have much time to think on that, because daylight was soon approaching and Molly would have to go to work and return Rosie home. Mary could either go fetch her or wait for Molly to drop her off. The first option sounded slightly less horrendous, so Mary decided on it.

She texted Molly to inquire as to when would be a good time, and received a response almost immediately: "Any time in the next hour. How'd the case go?" Mary kept her reply a short and simple as possible, afraid she'd worry Molly if she disclosed too much over the phone. This was a conversation that needed to be had face-to-face and immediately succeeded by a good cry. "On my way. Will explain when I get there," Mary wrote. She stood up and set off for the door when she remembered her bereaved husband holed up in the bedroom. She couldn't leave him alone, could she? But she certainly couldn't bring him. Slowly so as not to disturb him, she crept into the room and peered over at the bed. John was sprawled on top of it, dead to the world. Whether he fell asleep or passed out from exhaustion, she didn't know, but it was good enough. Hopefully, he wouldn't wake until she returned. In case he did, she left a note on the bedside table, then set off for Molly's.

On the way, she attempted to rehearse the conversation over and over again, but there was no decent way to put this. The only way she could avoid immediately hurting Molly was to lie and say everything was fine, but that would only cause more hurt in the long run when she discovered the truth and that Mary had lied about it. She would have to tell the truth, but how much of it was another matter entirely. No amount of premeditation would make this conversation any easier, so she chose to simply wing it. It would be painful no matter how she phrased it.

Upon arriving at Molly's quaint flat, she took a deep breath before knocking on the door. Molly answered within seconds, Rosie perched on her hip. The baby cooed and reached for Mary, who took her in her arms as she crossed the threshold into the flat.

"I can't thank you enough for taking her on such short notice," Mary said.

"It's no trouble," Molly quipped. "She's quite well-behaved for a child her age."

"Really? She must save all her good behavior for you then, she's a nightmare for me and John."

"Oh, well hopefully she'll grow out of it."

"I hope so too."

An awkward silence pervaded the room for a few minutes, during which Mary braced herself for the inevitable conversation. Steeling herself, she asked Molly if there was somewhere they could sit comfortably. The pathologist's suspicion was evident on her face, and Mary wished she could somehow warn her about what was to come. They made their way to the living room, and Mary placed herself on the edge of a chair, back ramrod straight.

"What's this about?" Molly asked, now sounding concerned.

"The case last night… it didn't turn out… how we'd hoped," she stumbled over the words, skipping over the truth as if playing hopscotch.

"Did the suspect escape?"

"No." At least that was a complete truth.

"Is someone hurt?" If Mary remained silent, Molly would figure it out, wouldn't she? She'd picked up enough from Sherlock to deduce these sorts of things. Mary could leave right now and leave Molly to her own devices. But she couldn't. Molly was her friend, and she owed it to her to speak the truth and be here for the aftermath.

"Yes and no," Mary answered, still unable to reveal what really happened. "Molly, there's no easy way to say this, but…" God, why did this have to be so hard? Two little words, and it'd be over.

"But what?" Molly was clearly panicky now, wondering what sort of news could possibly have Mary so tongue tied.

"Sherlock got shot—" she began. She was going to get to the point, but was cut off.

"Again?"

"Yes." Mary was painfully aware that the last time Molly had been told that Sherlock was shot, it was her own gun that had fired upon him. "But, he didn't pull through this time." It was out there, no taking it back. She'd just delivered the worst news a person could ever receive. Now she'd have to suffer the consequences.

She expected Molly to weep her poor little eyes out at the loss of the detective. However, she didn't expect her to grit her teeth, or for her eyes to convey unfettered fury the likes of which she'd never seen. Suddenly, Mary Watson was afraid. Fortunately, Molly didn't snap or lunge at her, she just sat silently fuming.

"Molly?" Mary dared to utter.

"How?" Came her one-word reply. She wanted to know exactly what circumstances had led to this. Mary couldn't tell her that out of fear for Molly's safety as well as her own.

"The suspect surprised him. Nobody knew she was armed. There wasn't anything anyone could've done," Mary explained solemnly. There were so many things that she could've done—should've done, but she didn't, and now her husband's best friend was dead. "I wish there was something I could've done," she admitted.

"Mary, it's not your fault," Molly assured. If only she knew how wrong she was.

"Thank you. I needed to hear that."

Molly hesitated for a moment before she asked the question Mary knew was on her mind: "Was John there?"

"Yes. They did manage to… to say goodbye," Mary said. She left out Sherlock's request that he not be taken to her morgue and John's manic clutching of the body. Molly didn't need to know that.

"That's… good." Mary knew what she was thinking. Molly didn't get any sort of goodbye. In fact, the last time she'd seen him was at Rosie's christening, where she'd scolded him for not paying attention. That shouldn't be her last memory of him.

"I'm sorry," Mary finally said. Molly deserved better than to have her friend ripped away from her like that. Everyone who knew Sherlock deserved better than to lose him like this, to an enemy that only surfaced because Mary entered their lives.

"It's okay," Molly managed, though Mary could see the beginning of tears. Any anger had drained, to be replaced by sorrow. "It'll be okay.'

"I hope so." Mary thought again of John, catatonic with grief. Frankly, she didn't want to face him when he came to. Undoubtedly, he'd blame her just as much as she blamed herself. He'd probably never want to see her again, and she agreed with him. She never wanted to see herself again, knowing what she'd brought upon them. She looked again at Molly, failing to hold back tears, and decided that her presence was no longer necessary. Molly wouldn't openly grieve in front of Mary, but that's exactly what she needed to do right now. And Mary was starting to worry what John might do if he awakened and found himself all alone.

"Listen, Molly, I know it's terrible of me to stop by and deliver news like that only to slip right back out, but John's at home and I don't want him to be alone much longer," Mary informed.

"Of course, please don't let me keep you here. I need to get ready for work."

"Molly, I'm sure they'd understand if you called in sick."

"No. It'll take my mind off things." For the life of her, Mary could not understand how looking at dead bodies, the majority of which were murder victims, could possibly take her mind off her recently-murdered friend, but she chose not to argue. "Wait, they didn't… they didn't bring him to Bart's, did they?" Molly asked.

"No," Mary said. After a brief deliberation, she decided to tell Molly part of the reason why not. She needed to know that Sherlock cared enough about her to be thinking of her in his last moments alive. "Sherlock specifically asked he not be taken here."

"When?"

"Just before he left," Mary replied, choosing to euphemize it. Molly understood what she meant, and blushed a deep shade of red. Molly showed Mary to the door and let the two of them out.

"Take care of John," she instructed.

"I will." Sherlock had asked her to take care of him, and she'd be a villain not to attempt to obey his command. Mary returned home, with Rosie in tow, and immediately checked on John. He was exactly where she'd left him no too long ago. Now somewhat concerned, she placed her fingers on his neck to check his pulse, just in case. She breathed a sigh of relief at the reassuring thrum. She left him be and returned to the living room after setting Rosie down-she'd been up far too late last night.

It was another two hours before she heard rustling coming from the bedroom that signaled John was once again lucid. She wanted to check on him immediately, but she also didn't want to crowd him. So many things were probably rushing through his head that seeing her so soon probably wouldn't help matters any. She decided to wait a bit. She heard him walk into the bathroom and the subsequent running of the faucet. It made sense that he'd want to wash up, so why was something nagging her? She listened more closely, but heard nothing alarming. Still, something didn't seem right. She allowed a few more minutes to pass, and then she realized John never left the water running this long. Months in the Afghan desert had instilled rigid water preservation instincts that he hadn't shed upon returning to London.

When she saw John standing at the sink and the copious amount of blood gushing down the drain, her first thought was that he'd slit his own wrist. Considering the circumstances, it wasn't that extraneous a conclusion. "John! What are you doing?!" she exclaimed, fearing he'd truly been trying to take his own life. She rushed towards him and snatched his hand away to survey the damage. Evidently, he hadn't tried to cut open his wrist, but what he had done was even more puzzling. His right fingertips were rubbed raw and dripping blood. She stood, breathing heavily, holding John's left hand away so he couldn't inflict any more damage while his doe-eyed gaze flitted between her and his mangled hand. "John, please tell me what you were trying to do." Even if it wasn't a suicide attempt, something was wrong.

"There was blood stuck under my nails," he muttered meekly, stumbling over the words. It was then she noticed the bloodied nail clippers on the counter beside the sink and recalled the scrubbing motion he'd been doing when she first came in. "It wouldn't come off. So I tried harder," John added. Mary thought she'd cleaned everything off last night, but evidently she was wrong. Either that or John had imagined his nails were still contaminated. Frankly, either was equally likely. But he definitely would've gotten everything off without inflicting this kind of damage on himself.

She sighed and ran to get the first aid kit so she could fix him up. She'd question him while she worked on his hand. They made their way to the kitchen and she sat him down at the table while she got out the supplies she'd need.

"You're angry with me." John spoke first as she cleaned the cuts and began dressing them. She expected him to be flinching or hissing in pain as she moved his hand around, but he didn't even seem to notice.

"No, I'm not angry," Mary countered. "I'm concerned. I thought I cleaned everything off earlier when I brought you home. I double-checked both of your hands." This was true; she'd gone over her work diligently before putting him in bed.

"It was stuck under my nails. It was hard to get at."

"But that still doesn't explain why you scrubbed them raw and cut your nails so dangerously short."

"It still wouldn't come off," John defended. Mary stopped working for a second and looked John in the eye. Any reasonable person would've stopped once they noticed the first hints of blood or felt the pain of ripping through skin. Evidently, John had been beyond reason. He'd torn his hands up in a grief-fueled frenzy, and she feared he'd do something similar if the opportunity presented itself again.

"John, if this is your outlet, you and I are going to have to talk. This is unacceptable."

"I didn't even realize what I did. I was just sort of mindlessly scrubbing."

It was a small consolation to know he wasn't actively hurting himself. Small consolation. "Does it hurt?" Mary asked, wondering if the pain had caught up to him now that he was in a different state of mind.

"No. I can't feel a thing," he answered. That was concerning. A wound like this should definitely cause discomfort. But was it really that inconceivable that the emotional agony completely overshadowed any physical ache this wound caused? No, she decided, it wasn't.

"Where is he?" John asked out of the blue as Mary finished the last finger. She began putting things back in the first aid kit.

"Hmm?"

"Where. Is. He?" John said again, and he sounded threatening. Mary knew he didn't mean it, but that did nothing to quell her unease.

"Not Bart's," Mary assured him, knowing that Sherlock's request must be what's on his mind. "Mycroft's taking care of him." She didn't know that for sure, she hadn't seen the British government since he left the aquarium, but it was a reasonable assumption to make. He'd ensure his little brother was taken care of.

"Can I see him?" Mary was taken aback by John's sudden request. However, his answer to the question required very little deliberation. Under no circumstances would she allow him to go and visit the dead body of his best friend. It would mess him up psychologically. On top of that, she feared that he'd cling to it again as he'd done at the aquarium.

"John, I don't think that's a good idea," she told him. She half-expected an argument, but was relieved when John shook his head in agreement. The sound of Rosie crying broke the silence that had ensued, and Mary moved to go and get her. John beat her to it, and she allowed him to go soothe her back to sleep. He needed a reminder that there were still people in this world who relied on him.

Eventually, Rosie's cries ceased and John returned to the kitchen. His next comment startled her, "I have to go to Baker Street." God, why would he want to go there? She remembered what he'd been like after Sherlock's first death; the one time she inquired about Baker Street, he'd instantly shut down the conversation. After losing Sherlock, he'd been unable to face that place empty. She didn't think he should go back so soon after such a trauma, but she knew she should hear him out.

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"Not upstairs," John clarified, which did somewhat quell her concern. "Just to see Mrs. Hudson. I've got to let her know."

"Okay." Of course, their poor landlady needed to be informed of this tragedy. She tried to think of anyone else who could be entrusted with such an important duty, but unfortunately it had to be John. Relaying the event would cause him even more pain, but Mrs. Hudson needed to hear it from someone who'd been through this before, just as she had. Mary watched John go and hoped he'd return home no worse for wear.

Needing to distract herself, she turned on the television and flipped through channels mindlessly. She didn't really want to watch anything, and she knew that even if she did choose something she would pay no attention to it, but it gave her hands something to do. She stumbled upon a live news broadcast. She considered continuing on, but then she saw the summary of the story crawling across the bottom of the screen: London Aquarium Shooting. She only caught the tail end of the story, but it was enough.

"Authorities have been conspicuously silent as to the identity of the victim," the anchor read, "but they have assured us that the shooter was apprehended and is not at large. London Aquarium will remain closed until the all-clear is given." The anchor then changed subjects and Mary tuned out. So, they reported the incident, but the police hadn't released the fact that the victim was Sherlock Holmes. She suspected Lestrade, and possibly even Mycroft, were behind this. She wondered how many days would pass before the public finally noticed the absence of their favorite consulting detective. Knowing Lestrade, he'd try to keep it a secret as long as possible, but the conveyance of the truth was inevitable. Mary gave it two days before the first newspaper articles and obituaries were published.

John's absence left her with far too much time and energy to think. Without worrying about him to distract her, she had no choice but to focus on the repercussions of this tragedy. Until now, it hadn't really hit her that Sherlock was gone. She'd only known him for a short time, yet she found it hard to imagine life without him. He'd brought so much vibrant energy to the world that everything felt slower and colder now that he was elsewhere.

Sherlock Holmes was the type of man that nobody ever forgot. Meeting him, no matter how briefly, was a memory inscribed in one's brain forever. Mary remembered her own first encounter with the detective with a combination of fondness and trepidation. John had been about to propose—at least she thought so, he was stumbling his way there and they'd been rudely interrupted—when the obnoxious French waiter made his dramatic reappearance. She would never forget the montage of emotions that came over John's face when his identity had been revealed. She saw him fall apart and put himself back together in a matter of seconds, and then explode with two years worth of pent up grief and rage. Throughout the rest of the night, she followed to two of them from café to café and began to understand the dynamic duo that had captivated the world until death did them part. Temporary death. Their eventual reconciliation was a huge relief to Mary, who'd watched John attempt to continue to live without Sherlock after he discovered he was alive. One could barely call it living.

And now, because of her, he'd be forced to return to that state of partly-living. The first time, she'd sympathized with that pain he so clearly felt every day of his life, knowing there was nothing she could do beyond supporting him when he needed it. Now, she couldn't do that because there were plenty of things she could've done to save him from this.

"What have I ever done to deserve you?" she recalled John asking that exact question on the night he discovered what she truly was. Nothing. He deserved so much more than a woman who tried to kill his best friend and succeeded. If she really loved John, she would've stayed away before it was too late. Once they got wrapped up in Magnussen and everything else, it was too late. Even her dramatic escapade across the globe failed to disentangle them from this web of lies and death.

Mary sat down on the bed and buried her head in her hands, finally allowing the tears to come. She'd had to keep her composure for John, whose grief dwarfed her own, but now that she was alone she allowed the sadness to escape. She grabbed nearby pillow and simply let the tears flow as freely as they pleased. She didn't know how long she sat there regretting everything she'd ever done, but she was so engrossed that she didn't hear John return home. All of a sudden she felt his presence in the room and looked up to see him gazing down at her with pity in his eyes. No, he wasn't supposed to pity her. He shouldn't have to make room for pity.

"John?" she sniffled.

"Mary," he replied, sitting down on the bed next to her. "You're upset."

"Brilliant deduction," she huffed. She grabbed a tissue from a nearby table. "I'm sorry. You really don't need my feelings dumped on you right now. Go; I'll be fine in a few minutes."

"I'm not leaving you." Mary truly did not deserve John Watson. After everything she'd done to him, he still loved her and wanted to keep her safe and happy. How he managed to stay so true after everything he'd been through was a mystery to her.

"It was on the news. The aquarium's been closed all day," Mary informed John.

"I'll bet traffic there will be awfully light for at least a week," John huffed. She didn't even chuckle at the jest.

"John, you shouldn't have followed me. You should've just let me run away until it was safe." Mary spit out what she'd been meaning to tell John all along. Her attempts to abort had failed because of their persistence.

"I couldn't do that. First, Sherlock insisted, and he's never ever failed at dragging me along wherever his next case takes him. Second, Rosie needed her mother. I can't possibly raise her all by myself," John explained.

"But I brought this on you. If it weren't for me, none of this would've happened. I almost took Sherlock away from you once, and now I really did. Oh John, you must be so mad at me," Mary cried. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed. She felt John's strong arms encircle her, and despite the comfort they provided, she wished he hadn't done so. She didn't deserve his sympathy. He should leave her to cry her eyes out and find someone who won't throw him through the wringer.

"Shhh," he soothed. "It's not your fault. You did everything you could to protect us."

"And it wasn't enough."


	18. Testament

The next morning, Mary changed John's bandages without a word. They barely spoke at all throughout the morning. Mary suspected it would be a day of mindlessly caring for Rosie and letting the emptiness swell up inside of them, but that was before Mycroft decided to drop by. She hadn't heard from him since the incident, and the sight of him in their sitting room was enough to make her nearly drop the baby. She met eyes with John briefly before diving back into the nursery. The last thing she needed right now was a scolding from the British government.

John may have forgiven her, for what reason she couldn't tell, but Mycroft would undoubtedly blame her for what had happened to his brother. It was, after all, her fault. John's sentiment was clouding his judgment, but the elder Holmes had no such qualms. And she feared what he might do to her if given the chance. She doubted his capacity for physical violence, but the mental and emotional havoc he could wreak with his powers of deduction was unimaginable.

She hid out in Rosie's room while Mycroft and John conversed. She tried not to eavesdrop, but she heard bits and pieces and managed to conclude that Mycroft had come in search of grief counseling from John, which of course he was happy to provide. She thought Mycroft had come to shout at them or just discuss business arrangements for the funeral or reading of the will; she never would have suspected he sought advice. Mycroft Holmes never took advice from anyone. It figures that her husband would be the one to finally break through the layer of ice around his heart.

When she finally heard the front door open and close to signal Mycroft's departure, she emerged from the room to check on John. Witnessing the elder Holmes's grief may have amplified his own. However, he appeared completely unscathed by the encounter.

"Was that Mycroft?" Mary asked.

"Yes, it was. He needed a chat," John replied nonchalantly.

"A chat?" Mary still couldn't believe that Mycroft Holmes would ever chat with anybody about anything. He always spoke delivering every word as if it were prepared ahead of time.

"Yes. He's really torn up," John remarked. "I've never seen him like that."

"Well, he had just lost a brother. Even someone like him would be affected by that."

"Especially someone like him."

~0~

Mere hours after his visit to John and Mary's flat, Mycroft contacted Mary with information about the funeral. He probably thought she was more coherent than John so soon after the incident and was more likely to actually register the words she was reading, and he was absolutely correct. Even if this had been sent to John, she didn't think he'd even recognize it for what it was. It would be up to her to make sure he attended. Also, she'd been right in what she told John earlier; Mycroft was taking care of everything. She felt horrible knowing that he had to handle the arrangements for his own little brother, and she felt even worse when she thought a bit longer on what exactly that entailed. Someone had to go in and remove the bullet that had ended his life. Mary was immensely thankful that he'd ended up somewhere other than Bart's. If poor Molly had been faced with the body of her own friend in her workplace, even for a moment, she might never recover from the emotional trauma. But whoever had been placed in charge of Sherlock would stitch up a wound for no reason other than aesthetics. Stitches were supposed to precede healing, not end up a permanent fixture of the flesh.

But Mycroft had to oversee everything while simultaneously dealing with the overwhelming grief of losing his only sibling. He would probably relegate certain jobs to his lackeys, but she knew that he'd insist on having a last look at everything. She couldn't imagine seeing your own sibling, once so manic and boisterous, lying lifeless in a wooden box. As an only child, she couldn't fully understand what it was like to have a brother or sister, but she'd had plenty of close friends whose demises had nearly the same effect.

She now knew that it had been Vivian Norbury who sabotaged the coup in Georgia, resulting in the deaths of the rest of her team. She'd mourned Alex, Gabriel, and Ajay like they were family. Now that same vile woman had done it again. Mary was unaware of Norbury's fate, but she knew that if Mycroft had anything to do with it she'd never see the light of day again.

The funeral itself was a somber affair, to understate things dramatically. Mary had never been in a room where grief hung in the air as thickly as London fog. By then, the media had released the story of Sherlock Holmes's death in as many ways as possible. She refused to turn on the television anymore because it was all anyone talked about. Because of this, the room was filled to the brim with mourners, most of which she didn't even recognize. The network of people he'd helped by solving crimes was extensive, and many of them felt the need to pay their respects.

Mary clung to John like ivy for the entirety of the service. Not because she needed his support, but because he needed hers. She could tell by looking in his eyes that he wasn't all there; some part of his mind had wandered elsewhere, hopefully somewhere happier. He answered people's questions and returned hugs, but he did so in the way a computer program would. She doubted he'd remember any of this the next day.

Her own memory of that day was fuzzy at best. People cried, people sobbed, people wept, while she and John sat grim-faced and empty. She almost wished John had cried, but instead he stared into space the entire time. At least with crying there were concrete ways in which she could help: providing tissues, offering a shoulder, rubbing comforting circles on his back. She knew that physical touch would not be appreciated today, so she simply hovered. Occasionally, she'd speak to him, whisper condolences in his ear or ask simple questions, but he never replied.

Mycroft's speech flashed by in a blur of forced composure and inconsolable audience members. She observed several people excusing themselves because it was too much to handle. She and John sat numbly through the whole thing, listening to the sniffles and snorts of their fellow bereaved.

"John, it's time to go," she said to him when the service ended. They were moving to the cemetery now. He didn't reply, but stood and followed her as she headed out the door. They trailed a no-longer-empty hearse to the same place Sherlock had been 'buried' the last time. She wondered if Mycroft had the former grave excavated to make room for an occupied coffin, or if he'd simply obtained a new plot.

She recognized the area immediately, as she'd been here many times with John before Sherlock's return. Apparently they'd dug up the empty coffin and were using the same hole. Sherlock's would've appreciated the efficiency. She held John's hand as the casket was lowered into the earth, a part of her fearing he'd attempt to leap in after it, but he just stood stoically and silently. Mary looked for Mycroft, found him comforting his distressed parents, and sighed in sympathy. Their family had a hole ripped through it, one which could never be filled. Parents should never have to bury their children. And John certainly shouldn't have to bury his best friend twice.

Afterwards, she took John home, where he planted himself in a chair and refused to move or speak. For the most part, she left him be, but she did force him to eat something and to take a shower. She would not allow his health to suffer for this, the rest of him had already endured enough.

~0~

Mary had heard John tell of the sleek black cars that sometimes followed him along the streets, but she'd never seen them firsthand. Until today. She was taking a walk to get some air after making a phone call to John's surgery to inform them of the situation. Fortunately, those in charge were friends of theirs, and they insisted John take as long as he need. They knew of his relationship with Sherlock Holmes, and had undoubtedly heard of his demise on the news. She thanked them repeatedly before hanging up and announcing her departure to John.

He did his part in taking care of Rosie even in his current state, and she now trusted him alone with her. The incident the first night had left Mary rattled for days, fearing John would actually try and hurt, or even kill, himself, but he proved himself stronger than that. They hadn't spoken more than a sentence or two at a time to each other in the past few days, and the tension in the home was palpable. Even Rosie was picking up on it; she was eating and sleeping worse than ever. Mary truly loved her—of course she did, she was her daughter—but she was glad to have a brief respite.

However, Mycroft Holmes ensured her break was anything but relaxing. Her first instinct upon noticing a black car trailing her was to flee and hide, but then she remembered John's tales of Mycroft meddling in his life. Reluctantly, she strode over and allowed herself to be guided inside. The car drove her to the Diogenes Club, which Mycroft apparently frequented. His henchman led her to a back room where the elder Holmes himself sat behind a desk. Mary could tell from one look that tears and nightmares had kept him awake all night for several days.

"Mrs. Watson, always a pleasure," he greeted. His tone lacked its usual pretentiousness. He gestured for her to be seated, and she complied. He clearly wanted this to be a business-only conversation, but Mary suspected they would eventually digress. There was only one word to use to describe him, and that was haunted.

"Mycroft, why did you bring me here?" she asked. "I do have a mobile, you know, that thing people use to get in contact with each other." She didn't know where the sarcasm came from, but it made her feel a little better. Maybe it was the fact that sarcasm was so normal.

"The matters I must discuss with you are better deliberated in person." He probably also just wanted some company. Grief worsened when coupled with loneliness.

"Okay," she relented.

"There remains the matter of 221B Baker Street."

"What about it?"

"Well, since John recently vacated to move in with you, and my brother has…" he couldn't even finished the statement. He was beginning to choke up just thinking about it. Mary certainly wasn't going to make him say it.

"Yes, I understand," she told him, relieving him of the necessity to clarify.

"I wanted to implore you to tell John that the flat is his to do with as he pleases."

"What?"

"It is entirely up to him whether he wishes to keep or sell the flat. He is entitled to whatever suits his fancy."

"And why aren't you telling him this?" Mary questioned.

"Regrettably, my own emotional state is… fragile, at the moment, and coupling that with John's anguish could only result in disaster. I required a mediator who is somewhat more detached from the matter."

"Please, in what way am I detached from the matter? Mycroft, he was my friend too, and the godfather to my daughter for goodness' sake."

"Of course, I apologize for suggesting otherwise. However, I feared that one-on-one interaction between myself and Dr. Watson would be less productive than one with you. Also, I am aware he is not too keen on my methods of communication. My request will sound better coming from you."

"Okay." Mary understood his reasoning and agreed wholeheartedly. John and Mycroft had never gotten along swimmingly, and putting the two of them together when they're both volatile with sorrow was a recipe for disaster. Mary accepted her role as a diplomat between Holmes and Watson. "Is there anything else?"

Mycroft hesitated before answering, "Just, make sure Dr. Watson is taken care of. I know my brother was immeasurably fond of your husband and would hate to see him suffer. And if there's anything I can do to assist, don't hesitate to inform me."

"Of course." With that, Mary was seen out by the same henchman and driven back home. She didn't inform John immediately, but instead chose to wait a day or so before delivering such pivotal news. Not much changed in that short time, although Mycroft actually texted her once to ask if she'd offered John the prospect yet. She was elated that he was using normal methods of correspondence, and she informed him that she was waiting for the right moment. He understood, but insisted upon a forty eight hour limit.

The next morning, she approached him. "John—" she hesitated, wondering exactly how to phrase this. Apparently, she fumbled too long because John snapped,

"Just spit it out."

"Do you want to move back to Baker Street?" she inquired. "Mycroft said it's yours if you want it." That wasn't exactly how the elder Holmes had phrased it, but Mary knew the real question for John would be whether or not to return to his old quarters. The alternative was selling the place. He pondered this for a long time, long enough for Mary to prompt him.

"John? What do you want to do?" She didn't expect a final decision here and now, but she wanted to hear his first thoughts.

"I think I need to pay a visit first. Last time, I couldn't even handle being in there," he explained, referring to Sherlock's first death after the leap off Bart's rooftop. "But this time might be different." She hoped, for his sake, that it was.

"Okay." Without thinking, Mary embraced her husband in a much-needed hug. She hadn't been this close to him since before the incident, and she wasn't afraid to admit that it felt great, despite John's obvious reservations. He didn't return her embrace as freely as he'd done when they'd hugged countless times before. But pressed together like this, they somehow shared the burden of their grief.

~0~

Mary worried how John would react upon arriving at an empty Baker Street. He'd come once to visit Mrs. Hudson and break the news, but that time he hadn't ventured into the rooms above that he and Sherlock had shared. He hesitated on the stoop, staring at the large bronze letters adorning the door. For a moment, she thought he might turn around and insist they sell the flat immediately.

"Are you ready?" Mary asked him. He nodded and pulled out his keys. He'd kept them even during Sherlock's two-year hiatus. They stepped inside and stood in the entryway. Mrs. Hudson must have been out, as the flat was completely silent. That was probably for the best; John needed a moment alone in this place. He placed a foot on the bottommost step and paused, staring up to the floors above. "Do you want me to go with you?" Mary inquired, wondering if he'd prefer to do with without her either.

"Yes." They made their way upstairs, John entered the living room, and Mary remained in the doorway. For a while, John just stood and gaped at the room that had been inhabited not so long ago. The weight of the memories must be crushing him. It physically hurt Mary to know that no longer would the lanky detective storm around this room in a frenzy, tack pictures all over the walls, or invite all sorts of crazy clients inside to share their stories. Never had 221B Baker Street felt so despairingly empty.

John had wandered over to the violin and was staring at it as if it held the keys to the universe. Just another thing that would never be held by Sherlock again. He reached out and plucked a single note, which resonated loudly in the silent room. Suddenly, he went rigid, like he'd heard something that signaled danger. He turned around slowly and fixed his gaze on Sherlock's black armchair. The look in his eyes was that of a wild animal who caught sight of a predator. Quickly, he looked to her, and then back to the chair. Mary figured he was contemplating the chair's perpetual emptiness, but his behavior continued to puzzle her. He clamped his eyes shut and shook his head back and forth before reopening them. Now she was getting worried.

"John, you okay?" she asked concernedly. He didn't answer immediately, just continued staring at the empty seat before him. Eventually, he requested a moment alone, which she was all too happy to oblige. She headed back down the stairs, out the front door, and sat on the steps outside. She herself had been getting stifled by the overpowering emptiness of the flat; it must be ten times worse for John.

A part of her couldn't even contemplate ever setting foot there again. 221B Baker Street wasn't itself without Sherlock running rampant through it, and she felt like an imposter. However, another part of her considered that preserving the flat was a way of keeping him alive. If they gave it up, there's no telling who Mrs. Hudson would rent it out to. Whoever it was would turn it into a normal place for normal people. But that's not what 221B was ever meant to be. If the decision were up to Mary, she'd keep it just as it was. However, it was not her decision.

She wondered which side of John would win out: the side that wanted to distance itself from everything related to Sherlock in hopes that forgetting would ease the pain, or the side that refused to let go at all. If he wanted Baker Street, she'd support him wholeheartedly. If he didn't, she would attempt to convince him otherwise. He was probably having the same conversation with himself right now.

When John returned, she sensed an unfamiliar emotion. Hope. The barest hint of a smile ghosted his face, making her wonder what exactly had occurred up there. Whatever happened, she was glad it did, because John told her, "I couldn't bear to live anywhere else."

"Me neither," she responded. The relief she felt upon hearing that was unquantifiable. It took all her willpower not to grin like an idiot. Things were far from okay, and smiling seemed immensely far-fetched and unreasonable. When it would become acceptable again, she didn't know, but she hoped it was soon. She missed John's smile.

When they returned home, Mary immediately texted Mycroft with John's response. She couldn't tell simply from a written reply how the elder Holmes felt about the decision, but she suspected he preferred it this way. The flat was a part of Sherlock's life that didn't have to perish alongside him. What she didn't expect as a part of the response was an invitation to another meeting with him. She'd thought if he needed to talk he'd just kidnap her off the street again. She was grateful for the change of heart, and agreed to see him the next day.

She wasn't entirely sure what she expected this meeting to be about, but Mycroft's posture and tone conveyed an agenda of pure business. If there was time, she'd finagle him into discussing how he was coping. She knew without having to pry that he was the type to keep everything bottled up inside, and that wasn't healthy for anyone.

"So John decided he want to move back into Baker Street," he began.

"Yes. We visited yesterday, and he made up his mind.

"Excellent. It would pain me to see the flat passed away to… ordinary people."

"Are we not an ordinary family?" Mary questioned.

"Anyone my brother chooses to associate with automatically gains a higher standing on my scale of tolerance."

"Wonderful." She wondered if that included the numerous drug dealers that Sherlock must've interacted with in the past during the worst throes of his addiction. She doubted it.

"I wanted to discuss further details of my brother's affairs. Obviously, the flat is filled with his possessions," he continued explaining while he pulled out a file from beneath the desk. She knew before he said anything that is must be a will. She found herself a tad surprised that Sherlock even had a will. He went about life as if he were immortal, and certainly wouldn't have burdened himself with keeping track of such frivolities. However, Mycroft probably insisted he write one, and even Sherlock couldn't prevent the elder Holmes from doing something he set his mind to.

"When was this written?" she asked, wondering when Mycroft had managed to convince his brother of his own mortality.

"The original I had made for him as he was beginning work with Detective Inspector Lestrade. Before that, there was little of consequence that could even be included. However, over the years Sherlock requested it be amended."

"How many times was it amended?" Mary had changed her own will exactly once.

"Twice. Once a few months after his introduction to John Watson, and once again mere weeks ago." Weeks ago? What could have possibly spurned him to amend his will and testament in the past few weeks?

"His wishes are quite simple: everything does to John except the skull," Mycroft stated.

"The skull? Why did he separate the skull?" Mary was puzzled. Giving everything to John she could understand, but who was the one person who would inherit the detective's 'old friend?'

"I cannot claim to know why he separated it, but I can tell you he explicitly requested it go to one Rosamund Mary Watson."

Sherlock changed his will to include John's daughter. The concept was frankly ridiculous, but Mary couldn't help but smile. Only Sherlock would consider a skull an appropriate inheritance for a baby. But she still couldn't understand why he'd changed the will at all. So she asked, "Mycroft, when exactly did he make these changes?"

"If I remember correctly," he began. Of course he remembered correctly, why was he stalling for time? "He came to me and requested access the evening after her christening."

"Did he say why he felt the need to change it?"

"He did not specify why he outlined the recipient of the skull. I suspect it was a little joke of his. However, he did reiterate to me that it was now more important that the document be kept up-to-date in case something happened again."

"Again?"

"May I remind you, Mrs. Watson, that you once set out after my brother with the same intentions as Vivian Norbury. Fortunately, you failed to succeed as she did, but you certainly came close enough to… shall I say 'rattle' him." Mycroft's tone had shifted from business-like indifference to suppressed rage. Of course she knew that; she'd thought about that nearly every minute of every day since it happened. It had been the worst decision she'd ever had to make, and she was surely convinced she'd chosen incorrectly. She should've turned the gun barrel to her own head and put everyone out of their misery.

"You've no need to remind me of that. Believe me when I say no one, least of all me, will ever let me forget it," she snapped.

"Good. I believe that concludes our business here. I trust you will relay everything to John?"

"Of course."

"Thank you." He made to stand up, but Mary stopped him, fully intending to accomplish both tasks she'd come here to do.

"Mycroft, you may be done here, but I definitely am not."

"I am a busy man. By all means, continue, but do make it quick." He sat back down again, and Mary stared him down, using everything she'd learned from Sherlock to read him like a book. He'd already lost weight in the short time since the incident, and several of his fingernails were bitten down. The circles under his eyes were more pronounced than she'd ever seen, and he hadn't looked pretentiously down his nose at her once since she arrived. All of these were signs that not all was well with the British government.

"How are you?" she inquired.

"Pardon?"

"Mycroft, don't play games with me. I asked you a question."

"I am f—"

"Don't lie. You may be able to fool someone like John, but I am certainly not John, and you are certainly not fine."

"Alright. Admittedly, I am… struggling." Mary commended him for revealing even this meager amount; she knew how difficult both of the Holmes found emotions. "My earlier conversation with your husband was somewhat encouraging, but…"

"He's not a miracle worker," Mary added.

"Unfortunately, no. Thank you for your inquiries, but I really must be going now," he said. Mary could tell the conversation was making him uncomfortable, and she decided to leave it. He'd revealed a healthy amount of information, and she was pleased with that. She could always check up on him periodically to make sure things hadn't worsened.

"Thank you, Mycroft. I'll see you later."


	19. Homecoming

Mary and John started packing up immediately. They each chose a room and stuffed boxed full of items until they ran out of room and had to go and fetch more boxes. For the most part, they worked in silence, only speaking to each other to ask about special instructions for certain objects. Mary would have preferred conversation, but John was having none of it.

Mary barely glanced at the objects she was putting away, as she was too preoccupied with getting everything done. However, she certainly took notice when she stumbled across John's gun. It lay innocently in a drawer in their bedroom, probably not even loaded, but she physically took a step back when she caught sight of it. Firearms had never bothered her in the slightest—she was an assassin, after all—but for whatever reason she was now innately repulsed.

It was no great feat to figure out why. A bullet had killed Sherlock Holmes. Sure, it was also true that countless other bullets fired into others had saved him, but a tiny piece of metal fired from one of these had ended his life. She knew then and there that the Watson household would never again house such weaponry. Even if John argued with her, she would argue back stronger, claiming it was for Rosie's sake. She didn't want her daughter to potentially endanger herself once she was old enough to start exploring. She herself didn't want a constant reminder of the event that had derailed her entire life. And, maybe most importantly, a part of her feared that John might decide to use it. She'd witnessed him rend his fingertips to mincemeat without feeling a thing, and she wouldn't put it past him to give up and end it all during a particularly intense bout of depression. Whatever happened, this gun would not find its way to Baker Street.

Her ears finally registered the absence of shuffling coming from the living room; John must've stopped working for some reason. They hadn't been working all that long, so she wondered why he'd taken a break. She emerged from the bedroom and found him sitting on the sofa with some sort of book and smiling. She hadn't seen him smile like that in ages. Whatever he was looking at, she wanted to see too.

"What are you looking at?" she asked. She wandered over and sat down beside him so she could see what he held.

"Out wedding album," John replied. She felt her heart skip a beat. This book contained some of the happiest memories of her life, memories that even a near-murder hadn't managed to taint. The fact that Sholto had almost been killed made it a definitively Watson wedding. But now, the pictures seemed bittersweet. While Sholto lived, another wedding guest had very recently left them. Yet, she couldn't make herself feel sad looking at these pictures. They reminded her of a time before everything had gone to hell.

"We should frame some of these, put them up around the flat," she suggested. In the years to come, they would need reminders of a time when things were brighter. She watched John flip through the album and select a few: one of the two of them outside the church, and another of the front table in the midst of Sherlock's best man speech. She wouldn't have chosen any differently. "Those are my favorites too," she said. "Hopefully they won't be overshadowed by all the baby photos Mrs. Hudson has been taking."

Her little joke went over relatively well, managing to elicit a chuckle from John. Mary took the photographs and stowed them somewhere safe. She would go out and buy frames for them tomorrow once she'd obtained a few more that she wanted up in their new home. There were two in particular that she knew John would appreciate.

The next day, she stayed home while John ventured to Baker Street to help Mrs. Hudson clean out the flat. Knowing he would enjoy having something concrete to do, she texted Mycroft for assistance:

"I need some photographs." She kept her message blunt and to the point. His reply came almost immediately.

"Which? And for what purpose?"

"Getting some framed to put up in the flat. I want the one of the two of them in front of 221B, and the one from the paper with Sherlock in the hat." She hoped the descriptions were specific enough that he would get the right ones.

"Very well. Someone will bring them over today."

"Thank you."

She loved having someone she could count on to be clean and efficient in his favors. True to his word, Mycroft had the photos left on her doorstep a mere three hours after she made the request. Opening the package, she saw he'd chosen the exact ones she'd been describing. She took Rosie to the store with her and bought frames for each of them. She'd show them to John a little later when they were closer to moving in. She was looking forward to watching him decide where to place them.

~0~

When there was no work left to be done at their home, John brought Mary and Rosie to 221B to help with clean-up there. The landlady was more than happy to look after the baby while they went through things in the busy living room. Without needing to speak, they assigned themselves tasks. John headed for the bookshelves, and Mary for the cluttered table by the windows. There were so many papers strewn about, with seemingly no organization to them whatsoever. Fortunately, Mary had suspected this would happen and had brought copious amounts of folders. Inventing a sorting system as she went, she filed papers neatly and hoped they'd be relatively easy to find should the need arise. John reached the top shelf by standing on a stool. Mary chuckled under her breath; John was a lot of things, but he was not tall.

He only lasted a few minutes before he came down and collapsed in his chair. He'd already gone through the kitchen and bedroom, and she knew it must be overwhelming to be surrounded by so many of Sherlock's things without Sherlock. She wondered if he'd discovered something somewhere that he'd rather not know. Sherlock Holmes had certainly kept his fair share of secrets.

"I'm going to Bart's," he stated suddenly. "I'll take the chemistry stuff to Molly."

"Okay. I'll just keep going, shall I?" she asked.

"Yes." John left her alone in the room. She heard the sound of him moving boxes for a few minutes, and then silence. She went back to work, skimming documents before putting them away. It was boring and tedious, but it had to be done. After an hour, barely a third of the papers around the room had found homes in folders. She'd found very little that actually interested her beyond a folder filled with sheet music in Sherlock's distinct scrawl: his compositions. That folder she tucked away to save. She'd be sure to add the waltz he'd given them for the wedding to the folder once she found it in the boxed from home. Looking at everything still left to do, Mary sighed before attacking another stack.

She was about to take a much-needed break when her gaze fell on a stack of index cards. It could've been many things, but at the same time she knew exactly what they were without having to read them. These were the notes Sherlock had written for the delivery of his speech at the wedding. She picked them up carefully, fearing they might spontaneously combust. She'd heard the entire speech, but she couldn't help but wonder if there were things here that hadn't been said out loud.

She read over the cards, most of which were word-for-word what had been spoken that day. Wait a minute, why had he even bothered to write notes? Sherlock had a flawless memory and could've easily delivered a speech of any length without missing a word. Had he really been nervous enough to doubt his own capabilities? It was then she noticed the cards at the back of the stack contained notes of an entirely different sort:

"Don't be too mean to Tom, Molly actually loves him."

"Monitor Lestrade's alcohol intake."

"If anyone cries: stop. You can't upset people on John's special day."

"Worst comes to worst: leave early. Better to flee than risk making anything worse.

He hadn't written reminders for his speech; he'd written reminders for his behavior. He was so determined to ensure their wedding day was flawless. There were countless more tidbits he'd recorded for himself, about even the minutest of details. How many times had he looked at these in the duration of the festivities? He'd been sneaky about it, even Mary didn't notice him looking at them even once outside of the speech. Maybe writing those for the speech had just been a cover for all the others, so nobody would suspect anything if they caught him glancing at them. It was too much for Mary to bear, so she stopped reading them.

What should she do with this stack? Should she let John see them, or prevent him from finding them at all costs? How would he react if he discovered these? Mary knew he'd be swallowed by guilt. She had no right to taint John's memories of that day by revealing this information to him. She stood over the trash bag, poised to toss the cards in, when she was overwhelmed by a desire to share this with somebody.

Mary went downstairs to Mrs. Hudson with the cards clutched tightly in her hand. She was in the middle of reading a story to Rosie when Mary entered. Mary hesitated, wondering if it was right to let the landlady in on this little secret. But the need to share the burden with someone won out.

"Mrs. Hudson," Mary began. "I found something upstairs that I thought you might like to see."

"What is it dear?" she asked, closing the book. Mary handed her the stack.

"You mustn't tell John," Mary urged. "But I couldn't keep this all to myself."

Mrs. Hudson took a moment to read through some of the cards. Mary had left the important ones at the top of the stack. Her expression melted into pity with each word she read. "You found these in the flat?"

"Yes. On the table with all the papers," Mary explained. "I knew he was worked up, but I didn't know it was this severe."

"Well, you know how he found situations like that a bit difficult. He would've done anything to make sure everything went smoothly, and he never would've forgiven himself if he'd said or done something out of turn."

"What did we ever do to deserve him?" Mary sighed, sitting down next to Mrs. Hudson and pulling Rosie into her lap.

"As often as he claimed otherwise, he was quite the emotional young man. And his capacity for caring was greater than most people's. I think the only person who could give him a run for his money in that department is John."

"Yeah." Mary couldn't believe she had the good fortune to know not one, but two incredible men. Rosie had really scored as far as father figures went. Too bad one of them was dead. "I'd best get back to work, John'll be back from Bart's soon."

"He went to Bart's?" Mrs. Hudson sounded concerned.

"Yeah, he's bringing the chemistry stuff to Molly."

"You let him go alone?"

"Yeah, he wanted to."

"I don't think visiting Bart's is a very good idea with him in this state. That's where it happened the first time, don't you remember?"

Oh God. She'd let John go alone to the place where he'd watched Sherlock plunge to his death. There's no telling what kind of distress that could cause him. She wanted to go after him, but any damage was already done. He'd been gone for two hours already. She only hoped Molly Hooper had been able to hold him together.

She brought Rosie upstairs and set her in John's armchair. After disposing of the note cards (John would never see them, not if she had any say in the matter), she tried to go back to work, but she was too distracted by worrying about John. When she heard the front door open, she held her breath in anticipation of what was about to walk through the door. He climbed the staircase and entered the living room. Mary saw tear tracks staining his face, but nothing she didn't expect. On the spot, she decided not to question him about what had transpired at the hospital. The last thing she wanted was for him to relive it yet again.

Instead, she showed him her progress with the papers. Gesturing to the many boxes filled with papers and things, she told him, "There's a lot of stuff I don't know what you want to do with, so I just put it all in a box. You can go through it." He nodded in response. She thought now was as good a time as any to show him the frames she'd procured. "Oh, I almost forgot! I had these framed. I thought we could decide together where to put them," she explained, handing him the stack of picture frames she'd brought. He looked through them meticulously, his eyes roving over every inch. She saw the look of surprise cross his face when he found the two extras she got.

"Where did you get these?" he asked.

"Mycroft." He didn't need a more detailed answer even if there was one.

"I like them," he stated bluntly.

"I was hoping you would." She felt immense relief that he'd taken her gift well, and that he wasn't too shaken by his venture to Bart's. He placed once of the pictures on the mantel before handing the rest to her. She put them where she thought they ought to be, and he didn't argue with her. He picked up the skull from its place and handed it to Rosie. She was immediately enthralled by it, and Mary couldn't help but smile at the sight of a baby handling a human skull. Even more endearing; when John bent to kiss her on the head, she mirrored the gesture and pecked the top of the skull. Sherlock would've loved to see that.

John spoke up, "Molly was really happy to have the chemistry stuff."

"Yeah?" Mary was anxious to continue a conversation. She felt like she hadn't been able to really talk to her husband in ages.

"Yes."

"That's great. Sherlock would want it to be used."

"Yes." He was giving her one-word answers. She wanted more.

"John, are you okay?" she asked.

"Yes." She didn't believe that for a second. She was determined to get him to speak up.

"Because it's okay if you're not. You know that, right?"

"Yes."

Not another word was spoken after that.

~0~

Mary knew she'd have to ask about the bedroom situation eventually, but she kept putting it off. It would be a difficult decision; she had her own opinions, and she knew John had his. But she forced herself to broach the topic when they'd moved in everything except bedroom paraphernalia.

"John, we have to talk about who's getting which bedroom," she announced while they were unpacking the umpteenth box.

"Why?"

"Because I don't know if we're on the same page."

"Okay."

"Do you want to tell me what you think first, or listen to me?"

"You can go first."

"Well, the bedroom on this floor is bigger than the one upstairs. And I think, especially as she gets older, Rosie will appreciate the privacy of being on another floor."

John considered this before answering, "I'd rather have my old room back. Size isn't that important." She knew there was more than that, but she didn't pressure him to reveal it. She understood without having to ask. The downstairs room was Sherlock's, and he doubted he would be able to sleep in it.

"Okay. We'll take the upstairs," she relented. She owed it to John to grant him this simple request. He didn't thank her, just silently returned to packing.

Over the next several days, they moved furniture and things into the bedrooms, until, four weeks after Sherlock's death, they were 'officially' moved in. A few days before that, Mary called John's office and told them he would likely be able to return the next week. They were eager to have him back. She informed of him of this, and he accepted it somewhat glumly. She also mentioned the possibility of him returning to therapy. He didn't give her a definitive answer, so she saved the idea for later. She'd bring it up again if things remained stagnant for much longer.

She felt John leave the bed that first night in Baker Street, but she didn't pursue him. In the morning, she roused him from his chair in the living room where he'd evidently conked out. She suspected he'd have a sore neck from the awkward position. Mrs. Hudson came to visit them, carrying a package with her. Mary wondered what on Earth was considered appropriate for a gift in this kind of situation.

"John, Mary, I've something to show you. John, you might remember I gave something to Mrs. Turner a while ago, and now I will return it as a kind of housewarming gift." She presented them with a gorgeous quilt stitched together from what must have been Sherlock's scarves. John must have found them when he went through the closets and been unable to simply get rid of them.

"It's… perfect," John said, running his hands over the fabric.

"You like it?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"Absolutely. I love it." John pulled their landlady into a hug.

"Mrs. Hudson, this is wonderful," said Mary. It was a beautiful way to keep a piece of Sherlock in the flat.

"Oh, I'm so glad! I thought it would be a nice touch." She quickly left, and Mary found herself alone again with John. She felt that she needed to say something, to start a conversation. They hadn't talked properly in weeks, and she was suffering withdrawl.

"She really is the best landlady in the world," she remarked, electing to start on neutral territory.

"Yeah, she's great. And apparently Mrs. Turner next door is a wizard with a needle and thread."

"Have you ever met her tenants?" Mary had heard mention of them a few time, but had never seen them. "The 'married ones' she's always on about?"

"No. I don't think they like us very much. Liked us." She cringed at his switch to the past tense.

"Oh, I'm sure that's not true." She could think of no better people to share a street with.

"Either that or they were recluses," John remarked.

"John, your next door neighbors are not recluses."

"It's probably safer if they are. Not too long ago, four assassins moved in around here."

"Now there are five." The joke was a risk—a big risk—but fortunately he took it well and laughed along with her.

"No, they all left. Baker Street's assassin count is firmly planted at one. Still more than is generally acceptable for a residential street." The was the first hint of sass she'd heard from him since the incident. That taste of it made her realize just how much she'd missed the real John.

"Well, let's call it a half since I'm retired." She regretted digressing towards this subject. They occasionally talked about her previous career, but she thought it far too relevant to what had just occurred to continue to toss it around nonchalantly.

"Okay, half." John took a step closer to her and grabbed her hands. Mary's heart rate sped up. "Thank you for being there."

He was giving her far more credit than she deserved. She'd done nothing except help him move. That was something even an acquaintance would do, and she was his wife. Accepting his grace made her feel nauseous. "John, please don't thank me. I don't deserve your gratitude." She frankly didn't deserve anything of his at all.

"Yes, you do," he insisted. She knew he was about to launch into a more detailed explanation, and her stomach rolled protestingly. "I would imagine how this would've gone without you, but I don't have to imagine. I would see little reason to get out of bed in the morning. And when I finally did, it was only to pour another whiskey. Without you, no doubt I would be in a similar situation now. Last time, meeting you pulled me out of that funk. This time, you've kept me out of it entirely. So I do thank you."

Why was he so good to her? She killed his best friend. "I'm so sorry you had to do this twice, John," she told him. "It's not fair." If the world treated people fairly, John would have everything he ever wanted and more, Mary would likely have died a miserable death, and Sherlock Holmes would be alive and kicking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've seen some of the fandom's speculation on the best man speech note cards before, and I thought I'd take it a step further. You don't have to accept it as canon, obviously, but I thought it an interesting addition.


	20. Counsel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2/3 of the way through! Hooray!

John never spent the night with her. He hadn't since they moved in to Baker Street. He didn't pretend to keep it a secret, and Mary pretended she didn't particularly care. But she did care. It pained her that her husband couldn't slip blissfully into sleep in her presence. Every morning, she found him downstairs wrapped up in the quilt of scarves, so she assumed that was the magic trinket that allowed him to fall asleep. Then why didn't he bring it upstairs to their bedroom? She had one theory that stuck out as more plausible than the rest:

John considered the quilt to be a representation of Sherlock himself. He thought it would insult Mary to bring what was essentially a third person into their bed. He preferred it if Sherlock stayed downstairs and Mary upstairs. Of course, this seemed utterly ridiculous; the quilt was definitively not a person, and Mary would be more than happy to have it in her bedroom if it meant her husband would be there too. But John's mind worked differently than hers, and she couldn't force him into anything he didn't want. He needed sleep, and if he had to return downstairs to do so, Mary was totally fine with that.

But only if it didn't continue indefinitely. He couldn't live the remainder of his life sleeping on the sofa, and she didn't want to live the remainder of her life sleeping alone. She was mere days away from re-suggesting he consult a therapist when he told her about Scott.

"Mary," he approached her after they'd put Rosie to bed. "I need to tell you something." She nodded to show she was listening. "I made an appointment with a therapist."

"That's great John," she replied, trying to disguise her relief. "When is it?"

"Two days ago."

"And you didn't tell me?"

"I wanted to check it out for myself before I let you hope. It hasn't been very effective for me in the past."

"I understand. But, what do you think about this time? Did he or she help at all?"

"Scott actually did help. I think we have a decent relationship, at least better than the one I had with Ella. But he gave me homework."

"And that is?"

"To write a concluding blog post." Mary knew that would be hard for John. He was plenty good at articulating his and Sherlock's cases, but explaining how he died was another story entirely. She was slightly worried that it would prove too difficult.

"Have you done it yet?" she inquired.

"No."

"When are you going to start?"

"I was planning to do so right after this conversation."

"Then don't let me keep you any longer."

He sat down at the table with his laptop in front of him and began typing frantically. Well, when it came to John Watson's typing, frantically was a relative term. She had no idea how he'd managed to skip basic typing in primary school, but he insisted on using only his two pointer fingers. She'd asked him about it once when she caught him writing up a case, but the answer was one she'd never stopped to consider: "My left hand isn't as fast as my right since the shoulder injury. They said the bullet struck a nerve that connects all the way down my arm; there was nothing they could do. So when I try to use all my fingers, the letters end up out of order. Trust me, this is the more efficient way for me." She took his word for it and never questioned his typing again, although she can't ignore the humor in a grown man typing with two fingers.

"Can I read it?" she asked after he'd been working for over an hour.

"When I finish," he insisted. She understood why he needed to draft and redraft. His relationship with Sherlock was innumerably complicated, and putting his feelings in words without coming across too devastating or too aloof was a fine balance. She'd read the published version that he put on the blog. When he did publish it, she read every word, box of tissues handy. It was just over five hundred words, but each one was like a punch to the gut.

~0~

John went back to work soon after that. Mary hadn't been back since Rosie was born. They decided that she would stay home at least until Rosie was a bit older. They didn't want to pay for a nanny, and Mrs. Hudson and Molly couldn't handle the responsibility all on their own. Molly had a job of her own and Mary refused to allow their landlady to shoulder most of the burden. It wasn't like they needed the money. John was valued at the surgery, and Mary suspected Mycroft had something to do with the stunningly low total of Baker Street's rent.

After his first day, John came back looking exhausted. A full workday was never easy, and it was especially hard to go back after a long hiatus. "How was your first day back?" she asked.

"Mundane," he grumbled.

"Isn't that what you wanted it to be?"

"Absolutely." They went to the living room where Rosie was playing with some colored rings. Then John announced that he was going to see Greg Lestrade tomorrow night. "That's great!" Mary encouraged. Her relief that he was initiating contact with other people was immense. And Greg was one of the few people whose situation was comparable to John's. He could not only sympathize, but truly empathize with John. "You haven't seen him in ages," Mary added. In fact, she hadn't even heard his name spoken at all.

"You're right, I haven't. I was talking to a patient today when I realized just how long it had been. It'll be good to catch up, to see how he's doing after everything. Hopefully he's fared better than I have."

"John, you're doing alright," Mary said encouragingly. He'd been given literally the worst hand the world could thrust upon a man, and was handling it admirably. "Writing that blog post was a big first step."

"Did you read it?" John asked.

"Yes." Mary didn't reveal that she'd read it several times, poring over each and every sentence and crying her eyes out. "It was beautiful, John. Every word of it." She then remembered that the list of comments on the post had been extensive, and had surely grown since then. She wondered if John had bothered to check, so she asked, "Have you looked at any comments?"

"Not yet. Have you?"

"I scrolled through a couple, but there were too many."

"Really?" He seemed curious now, and he opened his computer to check the blog's inbox. He became engrossed, and Mary left him be to read all the wonderful things people were saying about Sherlock. She put Rosie to bed and curled up on the sofa with a book. Soon afterwards, John joined her with a volume of his own. She didn't ask him about the comments on the blog. She wanted to know what he thought of them, but suspected he didn't really want to share. That night, he actually brought the quilt upstairs with him and slept the whole night beside Mary. Things were finally looking up.

~0~

Their first wedding anniversary passed barely a month after Sherlock's death. Mary remembered it; John did not. Or, if he did, he didn't acknowledge it, and she didn't have the heart to remind him. It wasn't something he would want to be reminded of at a time like this, with the memory of that night at the aquarium still so fresh in his mind. A part of Mary was disappointed that such an important, happy occasion was completely overshadowed by the sorrow that had pervaded their lives in the past month. But that part was silenced by the part that couldn't imagine celebrating her continued relationship with John when another, frankly more important one, had been violently terminated.

She silently hoped their second anniversary would be better.

~0~

Over the next several months, John showed phenomenal progress working with Scott. So much so that he caught up to and even surpassed Mary. She still found herself unable to escape the clutches of her own remorse. Every day, her subconscious whispered to her that this was all her fault; every night, she feared going to bed because of dreams that haunted her every once in a while.

She found herself standing in Magnussen's office as she had so long ago. She looked down at the gun in her hand and tried to open her fingers to release it from her grip. However, it stuck to her glove as if they were one and the same. She shook her hand in an attempt to pry it loose, but it wouldn't budge. Then, she heard the door open behind her.

This time, Sherlock didn't initially suspect she was Lady Smallwood. He addressed her immediately as Mrs. Watson. He used that title when this happened in real life, and Mary had spent hours wondering why. He always just called her Mary. She'd concluded that it had been a last plea to save himself. By reminding her of her connection to John, he'd hoped she wouldn't act upon whatever instincts had led her to be holding a gun to him in the first place. It had thrown her in the moment, and maybe that's why the bullet had hit a bit closer to the middle than she would've liked. Center mass was risky.

Except here, in this dream, she was aimed nowhere near his chest. Mary held the gun to his head.

Sherlock didn't say another word, just stood there looking dumbstruck. For all his genius, he had never suspected Mary would turn out to be what she was: a cold-blooded killer. His eyes were wide and beginning to water at the corners; he was silently begging for his life. Mary tried again to shake the gun from her hand, but she couldn't even move her arm.

Then her finger squeezed the trigger, and a bullet planted itself in Sherlock's brain.

She despised the nights when she dreamt that specific scene. There were occasional other plots, but that was the most common and the most memorable. On a whim, she decided to contact Scott for an appointment of her own in hopes he could do for her what he'd done for John. She looked in John's phone for his information and scheduled her first meeting, without revealing anything to John himself.

"Nice to meet you, Mary," he greeted after she'd settled herself in the quaint little room.

"Nice to meet you," she repeated.

"I know it sounds redundant, but I always ask my patients the same question on their first visit: why are you here?"

"I'm sure you already know the answer to that," Mary insisted, reluctant to speak the real reason out loud.

"I want to hear it from you."

"Well, my husband has been seeing you for a while and is improving. I myself am also struggling with the loss of his best friend and thought it best to seek professional help."

"I notice you said, 'his best friend.' Was he not also a friend to you?" the therapist asked.

"No, of course he was. But the distinction of John's best friend is more fitting in my case."

"And why is that?"

"Because his death is my fault. I killed my husband's best friend," she stated firmly. There was no reason to beat around the bush; Scott needed to know exactly why she was here so he could help her.

"I don't understand," is what Scott said. "You didn't murder him, did you?" is what Mary knew he was really thinking. She owed him an explanation. Though she couldn't legally divulge the details, she attempted to explain the situation.

"I didn't pull the trigger. But the person who did was someone I used to know, a long time ago. She was causing me trouble, and Sherlock stepped in to protect me, and John, and our child. And she killed him. If it weren't for me, he never would've crossed paths with her in the first place."

"That's a very indirect assignment of blame, Mary. At no point during that explanation did I think you killed anybody," he remarked. If only he could know the truth. She'd killed more people than he'd had patients. Things would be so much easier if she hadn't led such a traitorous double life. "May I ask you, when a car hits a deer on a busy street, who is at fault: the driver or the deer?"

Mary did not understand how this had anything to do with her situation. However, she couldn't deny that it was an interesting question to ponder. Likely, there was no right answer, but the response a person gave revealed something about their way of thinking. Mary decided to go with the answer her brain had jumped to almost immediately: "the driver."

"Why do you say that?"

"The driver is a human and therefore has higher cognitive function and processing ability. Most deer are unaware that an approaching car will kill them." Sherlock would have been proud of that explanation, she thought.

"I think you misunderstand the point of the question. Let me rephrase: if a person runs into the middle of a busy street and is struck by a car, who is at fault? The driver or the jaywalker?" Now this variable changed the equation.

"The jaywalker," Mary answered.

"Why?"

"He does fully understand the injury potential of a car crash, yet he still chose to step into the vehicle's path. A driver will not have sufficient time to react and avoid collision. That is, unless the walker happens not to see the car coming, in which case assigning blame become more difficult. The driver still cannot reasonably avoid hitting the person without risking injuring themselves by hitting something else when they swerve…" Mary could've continued, but Scott cut her off.

"Do you understand my point? In many situations, no one person or group is at fault. One could easily argue either way, or neither way. I believe this applies to your situation: you are the driver, and Sherlock Holmes is the pedestrian. "Does that make sense?"

"Yes, but couldn't I have convinced him not to run out in the street in the first place?" Mary continued to speak in the frame of the metaphor, because if she returned to the frame of reality she might disclose dangerous amounts of information.

"I cannot claim to know Mr. Holmes's personality very well; you tell me, would he have listened to you?"

"No." Sherlock would've thrown himself headfirst into this case no matter what Mary, John, or anybody said. "Nobody could ever convince him to do or not do anything once he'd made his mind up."

"Exactly."

She understood, logically, how this whole debacle wasn't entirely her fault, but, emotionally, not so much. Scott was working to convince her using only minimal information about the situation, but that couldn't be fixed. There was so much tied up in her past that she couldn't reveal, which would make the process of therapy that much harder. She'd have to find ways to talk around numerous topics while still managing to preserve the emotional context.

"The thing is, at one point in my life, I made the decision to enter John and Sherlock's world. I made this decision knowing that people like this woman existed and were connected to me. Had I not introduced myself to John and Sherlock, they'd both be safe," she explained. That did a pretty decent job of covering all the bases without jeopardizing her history.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but it's my understanding that you met John during the period of Sherlock's alleged death."

"Yes."

"If you were aware of these supposed dangers, why did you approach him in the first place?"

Mary thought back to the first time she saw John. She'd just started working at his surgery, and was scrambling to figure everything out in the new environment. She didn't know exactly how long it had been since the Fall, but her keen eye could easily see something was missing from John Watson—something was wrong. She'd felt an overwhelming desire to fix it, whatever it was. For the most part, it worked. John perked up significantly. Somewhere along the way to helping him, she fell in love.

"He was struggling, big time, and if there was anything I could do to help him, I wanted to do it. But as we got to know each other… I guess he won me over. I wanted to be with him more than I wanted to keep him safe."

God, that was selfish of her. She now realized that was the true reason she hadn't listened to the part of her that advised against seeking a normal life. She wanted John Watson. And she'd taken him, hoping that her past was far enough behind her that it wouldn't interfere. But, like a stretched out coil, it sprang back and smashed into them full force.

"Am I really that selfish?" she asked aloud.

"No. Your actions are perfectly understandable." Except they weren't. The category of retired assassin was a small one, but Mary knew for a fact that the majority of people in it were not married with children. Most were smart enough to keep their baggage to themselves for the good of everyone else. Scott, with his limited knowledge of the truth, could only help her so much. He would never understand the full scope of the situation, and therefore Mary treated his advice with the caveat that it applied to normal people. It would be up to her to tailor it to suit her unique circumstances.

She decided to change the subject to one that didn't depend so much on her previous life. She told Scott about her concerns for John: "As I'm sure you know, John is suffering greatly because of this, and I don't think I'm doing enough to accommodate him. He's been very gracious of whatever it is I have done, but I don't think his thanks are warranted."

"He's giving you more credit than you think you deserve?"

""Exactly. But I want to deserve credit. I want him to know he can come to me, and I want to be a part of his recovery process."

"As his wife, you play a critical role," Scott explained. "You are his dearest confidante."

"But he doesn't talk to me," Mary countered. John rarely spoke to her unless she spoke to him first.

"Then you need to talk to him. Show your own vulnerability and he'll be more willing to reveal his. Your relationship needs to be built on mutual trust." That's how it had been when they'd first married. But then he discovered that everything she'd ever told him about herself had been a lie. After that, trust trickled out the window. Maybe there was hope that it could be scooped back inside. She wanted to continue this conversation, but Scott informed her that his next appointment would be arriving any minute. She thanked him for his time and made a mental note to schedule another meeting. She felt better for having talked to him, and suspected she'd continue to need his analysis and support for a long time to come.

Just before she left, she told Scott one last thing she needed to make sure he remembered: "Don't let John know I'm coming to see you. I don't want him to pity me and lose focus on his own recovery.

"Of course, patient confidentiality is always a top priority."

"Thank you." With that, she left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now I'm wondering, how would you answer the question Scott proposed? Is it the driver or the deer at fault? What about a driver versus a jaywalker?


	21. Wisdom

Rosie Watson's first word was 'dull.' Honestly, Mary wasn't surprised. Though he'd only been with her for a few months, Sherlock had left a lasting impression that she hoped would continue to manifest throughout the years. She hadn't intended to say something was dull, but she had been addressing the human skull that was her favorite toy. She would engage with other things, but never for very long and she always reached for the skull if given the choice. Mary chose to equate it to her first baby doll.

When they heard that word cross their daughter's lips, Mary and John met eyes and smiled. This was a rare happy moment, although it was made distinctly less happy by the absence of the person who would've enjoyed it the most. Mary would've given her right arm to see Sherlock's reaction to this. She wondered if he somehow knew just how much Rosie loved his posthumous gift. She hoped he did.

At Scott's suggestion, John wrote a letter to Sherlock about Rosie's accomplishment. He'd told her about the therapist's advice, and she thought it a wonderful way to maintain a connection. He may not be able to update Sherlock in real time, but this was a close second. For a while, she feared that he would write about every little thing to the point of being inane, but he saved those efforts for the important stuff. Of course she should have trusted John to be responsible with something like that. He wasn't going to sequester himself away with a pencil and notepad and scribble endlessly to a man who would never really read his letters.

Scott hadn't given her any concrete advice for handling grief as he had for John. Maybe that was because he didn't think mechanisms like that would help her. While their grief stemmed from the same issue, Mary and John had very different emotions associated with this tragedy. But a part of her wished that she, too, could write letters to the detective. First and foremost, she wanted to apologize for endangering him and ultimately ending his life. Secondly, she wanted to thank him for everything he'd done for John. She saw the impact that his presence had on the doctor, and it bordered on magic. Thirdly—alas, impossibly—she wanted to grab him by the wrist and drag him back here from wherever-he-was.

John didn't ask if she wanted to read his letter, and she didn't pry. Of course she wanted to read it, but she understood that its contents were between Sherlock and John and not for her eyes. She suspected he deleted them once they were finished. If it stayed on the computer, it'd be all too easy to find.

The letters weren't the only way in which they were keeping Sherlock's spirit alive in 221B. When Mary put Rosie to bed, she talked or sung to her like most mothers did, but John had a different method. In lieu of bedtime stories, he brought up the blog and read old cases to Rosie. Mary remembered wandering past the bedroom door and listening to John speak to their daughter. It took a moment for her brain to register what he was reading; she recognized the description of a Study in Pink, which she herself had read more times than she could count.

At first, she was slightly alarmed that their infant daughter was being exposed to tales of murder this early in life. She wasn't sure what that could do to a child's psychology. She took a step towards the door, fully intending to put a stop to this, when she listened a little more closely to John's voice. For the first time in a long time, he sounded content. Passing on Sherlock's legacy to their daughter was the only thing she'd seen that could bring her husband joy. Under no circumstances would she allow that to come to an end.

Instead of bursting in, she sat down against the door and listened to John tell the tale of Sherlock's genius and his own amazement at his new friend. She snuck away before he finished so he wouldn't find her listening in, but she did tell him she was aware of what he was doing.

"You're okay with it?" he'd sounded doubtful.

"Of course I'm okay with it."

When Rosie was old enough to actually understand the stories, Mary wondered if she would enjoy them or if she would prefer traditional children's books. She hoped it was the former. Rosie loved a human skull, so it wasn't all that far-fetched.

~0~

When Molly Hooper asked for an opportunity to visit with her goddaughter, Mary was all too happy to oblige. She said goodbye to John and headed to the pathologist's place. Sometimes, John was in a mood that clearly expressed he wanted to be alone. Today was one of those days, and she was glad their planned departure coincided with it.

Molly was overjoyed to see Rosie, cooing about how big she'd gotten. The two women made small talk for a few minutes while watching Rosie explore around the floor of the living room.

"How are you?" Mary asked Molly.

"Alright, considering. I have work to keep me busy," she explained.

"How much are you working?"

Molly hesitated, and Mary immediately concluded that the pathologist had been racking up obscene amounts of hours. Could she blame her? She missed Sherlock too, and if work was what helped take her mind off it, how was that a bad thing? "You don't have to say," Mary added. Molly's expression had provided all the answer Mary needed.

"How have you been?" Molly returned. Why did they have to go through the motions of having a normal conversation? They both knew that neither of them were doing that great, so why did it have to be discussed aloud?

"I'm improving," Mary decided to answer. She didn't mention the fact that she was seeing a therapist or that she was getting progressively more worried about John's state of mind. In the past month or so, every time she spoke to him, this small voice in the back of her head whispered, "He's lying to you." She wanted to put it off as paranoia, but the little voice was persistent. "He's hiding something. Something big."

"And John?" Of course Molly would switch the topic to the only subject more sensitive than Mary's own coping. But John's health was the most reasonable next line of inquiry. Mary considered lying, saying that he was steadily making progress in the right direction, but she needed to get her concerns off her chest. She trusted Molly to hear her out.

"Well… to be totally honest, I'm worried about him," Mary confessed.

"Why is that?"

"He's not himself. Of course, I don't expect him to be exactly the same after what happened, but he's not just grieving. I have this sinking suspicion that he's keeping some big secret from me, but I can't make heads or tails of what it could possibly be." Molly noticeably paled when Mary said this, which only magnified her suspicions. "Do you know something?" Mary immediately questioned.

"No," Molly answered quickly. Too quickly.

"You sure?"

"Of course. Mary, I know John, and he would tell you anything he thought you deserved to know." Mary wasn't buying it. She had no idea how Molly had kept Sherlock's secret for two years; she was a bloody awful liar.

"I don't believe you," Mary stated firmly. Molly turned another shade whiter. There was definitely something she was keeping from her. Mary commended her loyalty to John, he must've asked for her discretion, but Mary always got information when she wanted it. "Molly, what did he tell you?"

"Mary, I really can't say," Molly fumbled with her words. She was struggling not to reveal any more than she already had.

"So you do know something."

Molly was cornered now. She'd all but confessed. "It doesn't matter," she tried to change the subject, but Mary was having none of it.

"Yes, it does matter, because it concerns my husband. Whatever he's keeping from me, I believe is holding him back from recovery, so by informing me of whatever this is, you'll be helping him."

"Mary, I can't. You know I can't."

"What, did you pinky swear?"

"No. I think you're being unreasonable. John's not obligated to tell you everything."

"I'm his wife! Something's keeping him down, and I deserve to know what it is. You have no right to keep it from me." Mary had no idea where this anger came from, and she felt bad for dumping it all on the pathologist, but at this point her emotions had total control over any rational part of her brain.

"Mary, you should talk to John. Maybe he'll tell you if you just ask him," Molly suggested. Mary had steeled herself to talk to John about it on multiple occasions, but every time she looked at him her confidence shattered. She still felt that she was the main reason he was in this state in the first place, and she couldn't inflict further misery by pressing him for information he didn't want to disclose.

"I've tried, Molly. I've really tried, but every time I face him, he looks at me and I can see that he doesn't trust me. And why should he, when I got his best friend killed?"

"You didn't kill Sherlock," Molly insisted. Her placations did nothing to change Mary's mind. Multiple sessions with a professional therapist hadn't changed her mind. If she really didn't kill Sherlock, Scott would have forced her to realize that by now. The only possible explanation was that she was truly at fault, a fact which she'd known all along.

"I don't believe you," Mary growled.

Then Molly presented an argument she hadn't considered before: "If it was your fault, you would've been arrested. Have you met Lestrade and Mycroft? You think they would've let you off like this if they thought you were to blame?"

"No," Mary sighed, knowing she'd been defeated. The British government would have pulled all the strings in the world to put Mary behind bars if he thought she'd been at all responsible for the death of his little brother. Instead, he'd been nothing but helpful and supportive. Even John didn't blame her. In fact, the only one who saw any fault in Mary was herself. She really owed Molly Hooper for helping her come to this realization. "I'm sorry for snapping at you. You really don't deserve it. I'm just so worried about him."

"It's okay. You're both under a ridiculous amount of stress. The important thing is that you're there for each other."

"You're right. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Molly chimed. Mary was emotionally exhausted from that conversation and didn't think she could utter another word. Fortunately, Molly didn't force her to. She spent the rest of the visit playing with Rosie while Mary watched on. When it was time to return home, she thanked Molly profusely and repeatedly.

Upon returning home, she found the flat vacant. This surprised her, because John had been here before she left and certainly hadn't been planning an outing. She only had to wait half an hour before he returned from wherever he'd been. The shopping he carried inside erased a need for her to question his whereabouts. But when he greeted her, she still felt the same sense of unease pervading her that signaled something was off.

"John, are you okay?" she asked. "You seem a little shaken up."

"No, I'm fine," he insisted. She could almost hear the unsaid words, the truth beneath his placating lie. She could see it in his body language that he was uncomfortable in her presence. His gaze kept flitting all over the place, to everywhere but her face. She wanted to press the issue, but it didn't seem like the right time. Molly had told her she should just talk to him, but it was like there was a physical wall between them that conversation simply couldn't pierce. She left the issue for another day.

It turned out that 'another day' came a whole month later. John had had a long day at work and was still in the shower when she finished putting Rosie down for the night. She fetched the basket of clean laundry to bring to the bedroom, where John had just finished. She'd fallen behind in the past week, and there was nothing clean for him to wear in the dresser.

When she entered the room, one would've thought she caught him there with another woman. The guilt radiating off of him was palpable. He turned around to face her, and she immediately saw what he'd been hiding. Just above the mangled scar on his shoulder, the words 'high-functioning sociopath' were inked precisely.

"When did you get a tattoo?" she asked, wondering how long he'd kept this hidden from her.

"About a month ago," he replied. She saw his discomfort levels rise as she stepped a bit closer.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Didn't seem important."

"Well, I think it's important. Certainly more important than the more boring patients you insist on telling me about." That made up the majority of their conversations at dinner: John's patients. For the most part, Mary enjoyed hearing about his day, but there were some stories that hardly deserved to be repeated.

"I don't know. I wasn't sure how you'd react, I didn't want to upset you." Why was he so determined to keep her happy? The man had done nothing wrong, ever, in his entire life. She should be going out of her way to make him happy, not the other way around.

"John, it's your body," she told him. "I can't tell you what you can or can't do with it. And I would never get upset with you over something like this. I think it's a perfectly acceptable thing to do."

"Are you saying you want one too?" She detected a hint of jest in his tone, and allowed herself a light chuckle.

"No. Definitely not. We are not a matching tattoo type of couple." They were not a matching anything type of couple, in Mary's opinion, but the real reason she didn't want one was because she didn't deserve one. Her connection with Sherlock was nothing compared to John's.

"Agreed," John remarked.

"But why'd you choose to put it there, right over the scar?" she asked. Its proximity to the old wound must've held significance.

"So that I think about it every time my shoulder aches or twinges."

"Which is… how often?" John hadn't told her all that much about the lasting physical effects of the bullet wound. She knew it bothered him to some degree, but not the precise degree.

"Pretty much all the time," John admitted.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"Too late to change it now. But yes, I do think it's a good idea. Forgetting is far worse than hanging on." She knew he spoke from experience. The first time, he'd tried to forget everything. He'd moved out of Baker Street, grown a mustache, and distanced himself from everything that reminded him of Sherlock. He'd tried to forget, and he'd been miserable. Now, he was holding on. They lived in a Baker Street that was filled to the brim with reminders of the great detective. He was a bit better off than last time, at least that Mary could tell, but she worried that he'd get too caught up in hanging on to the past.

"But there is such a thing as holding too tightly. You know that, right?" She wanted confirmation that he recognized this.

"Of course I know that. I'm working on loosening my grip. This had actually helped, because I can now let go without worrying about being able to find my way back."

"Good." His explanation made perfect sense. "Did you ask Scott before you got it?" she questioned, wondering if this had been another suggestion from the therapist.

"No. But I did tell him about it afterwards. He seemed to approve. I explained it the same way I just did to you."

"Okay. Thank you for telling me all of this. I know it's been hard, and being totally open isn't really your thing, but if there's ever anything you need to talk about, I'm here. I'm not as qualified as Scott, but I do know you and I knew him, alright?" She was secretly fishing for whatever he'd been keeping, whatever secret Molly Hooper was privy to. If he'd gotten the tattoo only a month ago, it was too recent. She'd suspected John wasn't being completely frank with her long before that.

"Alright," John replied. She threw him a clean shirt and they crawled into bed together. Mary knew she would fall asleep first, but she also knew she'd awaken first. John suffered from persistent nightmares that had him tossing and turning violently enough to shake the whole bed. When this happened, Mary simply migrated to the couch. It was easier than trying to wake him. She didn't mind all that much, and she wouldn't dare relegate John to the couch every night just so she could rest peacefully.

John wasn't the only one with bad dreams, but Mary didn't react as viscerally as he did when her subconscious decided to play games at night. She'd awaken in a cold sweat, shivering from fear and anxiety. The dreams didn't haunt her as often as they did John, but often enough that she wished they'd ease up. She reminded herself to bring it up with Scott at her next appointment.


	22. Lapse

"You'll be pleased to hear that a friend of mine helped me come to terms with my lack of responsibility for Sherlock's death," Mary told Scott.

"Really? Please, tell me how she succeeded where I had failed."

"She brought up certain people whose reactions would've been quite different had I been to blame. I think that coupled with everything we've done helped me to finally see it from the correct perspective."

"That's great. Really fantastic." Scott jotted something down on his notepad, and Mary suspected it was the first positive note he'd written about her since they started working together. She was secretly proud of herself.

"But now that I've forgiven myself, I've had time to focus on other things," she explained.

"Like what?"

"John. He's hiding something from me, something important, but no matter how approachable I make myself he refuses to talk to me. Do you know anything about this?"

"Mary, you know I can't disclose information about another patient, even if he is your husband. Anything he tells me is strictly confidential."

"I know," Mary sighed. "But I was hoping you could give me some insight on how to get him to open up to me. I can tell he's hurting, and if this secret is contributing, I want to eliminate it."

"When you say you've tried to make yourself approachable, what does that entail?"

"I've told him many times that if he needs to talk about anything, I'll always be there. And the few things he has told me, I've been incredibly supportive. I recently discovered his tattoo, and he told me he hadn't shown it to me for fear I'd get upset. Of course, that's not true, and I told him as much. I thought that might increase his trust in me enough, but it didn't.

"What you've done already is good. I can see very little reason he wouldn't trust you, but have you considered any other reasons why he might not want to tell you something?"

No, Mary hadn't. In the past, trustworthiness had been the only obstacle that every stood between her and obtaining information. But there were certainly other reasons to withhold something. But she admitted, "I don't know."

"Is it possible that you're misinterpreting his behavior?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do you have any evidence to support your claim that he's hiding something?"

"Well, no. But I generally have good instincts for this sort of thing." She couldn't tell him where she had honed those instincts.

"Is it possible that these instincts may have failed you?" She couldn't believe he was doubting her like this. She knew there was something going on, she could feel it in the air like an impending thunderstorm. Had John told Scott about whatever-this-was and he wasn't allow to share the information with Mary due to patient confidentiality? Was he purposefully leading her away from this line of inquiry to save himself from having to dance around the truth? If that was the case, she was wasting her time. She'd try to cajole it out of John for a little longer before returning to Scott for guidance.

~0~

Rosie's first birthday was rapidly approaching. Mary started planning a month beforehand, and she still felt unprepared when the day of finally arrived. She kept running through the checklist in her head, panicking when the item in question wasn't in her immediate sightline. The morning of the party, she awoke on the couch after a thankfully dreamless sleep. She'd awoken around two in the morning to John squirming and mumbling in the throes of another dream. They hadn't eased in frequency at all. If anything, they were getting worse.

"John, you up?" she called when she heard the floorboards squeaking upstairs. She really needed his help today if things were going to go smoothly.

"Yeah," came his reply. While he got ready, Mary entered Rosie's room and got her changed into her day clothes. She wore a dress that Molly had picked out for her not too long ago that Mary thought was absolutely adorable.

"Happy birthday, Rosie," Mary cooed, kissing the infant's chubby little cheeks. "Are you ready for your special day?" Rosie clapped her hands together and giggled. Mary carried her into the living room and set her down in her usual spot on the floor.

"Dull!" Rosie demanded. Mary grabbed the skull from the mantel and gave it to her daughter. She ran her hands over it and stared knowingly into its eye sockets. Mary shook her head in continued disbelief. She'd never known a child to be so enthralled with a toy that wasn't even brightly colored or noisy. Rosie stopped her ministrations for a moment and looked up at Mary. "Dada?" she inquired.

"John, Rosie's asking for you!" Mary called upstairs. Mentions of their daughter always got him moving faster. She returned to the kitchen and waited for John to come downstairs. When he eventually did, he sat down across from the baby and greeted her.

"Dada!" Rosie sounded so excited that Mary smiled giddily. Her own relationship with John may have been a bit rocky, but the bond between father and daughter was strong and steady. She watched him set his hand on top of Rosie's perched on the crown of the skull. They met eyes and stared for an excessively long time.

"John, what are you doing?" she asked.

"I don't really know. Apparently it was some sort of staring contest, and I lost," John explained.

"Well shake hands, say good game, and then help me get ready," Mary instructed.

"Ready for what?"

"Don't tell me you forgot." Oh God, how could he not remember today's date? She'd been talking about this party for weeks, and it was his daughter's first birthday! That was one of the most important milestones in a child's life, and it just slipped his mind. That was insane.

"Forgot what?"

"What today is?"

"Clearly I have, so please enlighten me."

"John, it's Rosie's first birthday today," she said slowly, letting it sink in the severity of his faux pas.

"God, I'm sorry. It totally slipped my mind." He sounded horrified with himself, and Mary could not for the life of her be angry with him. She was just a little deflated.

"I guess it's alright. She's too young to even recognize what today is either." Mary returned to the kitchen to leave John to piece his mind back together. She understood that this was a difficult time in his life, but she thought he'd been improving. But evidently his remaining grief had taken up enough space in his head to push out birthdays. He soon followed her into the other room, and she knew he was going to ask what they were doing today to celebrate: something she'd told him several times over the past several weeks. Her frustration got the best of her, and she snapped at him:

"I don't want you to embarrass yourself further by asking questions about plans I've been talking about for weeks. We're having a few friends over this afternoon, nothing huge. Mrs. Hudson's making a cake, Molly and Greg will probably bring something or other. I asked you if you wanted to invite your sister, and you said no." She couldn't believe he didn't remember that conversation.

"Did you get any sleep?" he changed the subject.

"Once I left the earthquake simulator you turn out bed into, yes." He didn't deserve a sassy comment like that, he really didn't. But Mary was frustrated and beginning to grow afraid that things would never change, and her temper flared.

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely.

"It's okay."

"No, it's really not. We should at least take turns on the sofa."

"I fear you'd fall off and hurt yourself. And you know sleeping on the sofa bothers your shoulder." She'd heard him complain about that while they still lived at the other house, and she could see it in his posture when he'd still kept the scarf quilt downstairs and slept there.

"I appreciate your concern, but it still seems so unfair, me kicking you out almost every night."

"John, life isn't fair," Mary began. "I think having the occasional kip on the couch is rather mild compared to what some people have to endure." She'd gladly sleep outside if it meant John's nightmares would stop.

"Okay," John sighed in defeat. She knew he would still feel guilty whenever he awoke to an empty bed, but there was little more she could do. Maybe this guilt would help drive him to confess whatever he'd been hiding.

~0~

The party went as smoothly as could be expected. Rosie's first time trying cake was hopelessly cute, and Mrs. Hudson took hundreds of photos. She received several new toys, which she was glad to play with while the adults talked to each other.

"How are you, John?" Molly asked. Mary wondered if there were hidden connotations in this question, given that the two of them shared some intimate secret.

"Given the circumstances, I think I'm alright," John said deliberately. Mary looked at him with despair; she was the only one who knew about the relentless nightmares or the fact that he'd forgotten the significance of today. "Everything's going slowly, but it's going. How are you liking the chemistry equipment, Molly?" John asked. He wanted the subject of the conversation moved from him as soon as possible.

"I can't thank you enough for allowing me to have it. I know he would've wanted it put to good use. It's already helped me decipher many causes of death. There were even a few instances where the police assumed one thing and I proved them wrong," Molly explained. She sounded proud of herself, and Mary was glad they'd decided to give all of that to her.

"How are things at work, Greg?" Mary asked. She hadn't seen him at all since the incident, although John had, and she wondered how the dynamic at Scotland Yard had changed since it lost an honorary member.

"Well, you know, they're different. It's certainly calmer, a bit more organized than it was… before. But, I have to say it's less enjoyable. A little chaos is good for you, you know? We're struggling a bit to pick up the slack, but it's helped people appreciate… everything he did for us," he said. He spoke in starts and fits, probably deciding what to say and what to keep to himself. Mary wondered how many difficult cases had been allowed to go cold.

"I'm sure Anderson's at a loss without a bickering partner. Did he find a new punching bag, or has he given up entirely?" John sounded angry, clearly he'd been bottling up resentment towards Anderson for a long time. She knew Sherlock had hated him, but she hadn't known how much John also despised him on Sherlock's behalf.

"Actually, Anderson's really stepped up his game. He's always asking to take on extra cases or work overtime. I've had to deny him a few times just to force him to go home and sleep."

"Really?" John asked.

"Well, last time he went a little off the deep end with his conspiracies and theories as to how he faked it. He even roped in a bunch of other people and made a little club, called it the 'Empty Hearse.' At the time I thought guilt had driven him mad, but as it turned out he was right all along. Apparently Sherlock even told him how he did it, if Anderson's bragging is based in truth. He never even told me." Greg's last remark sounded a bit sad, as if he was disappointed that Sherlock hadn't entrusted him with that information.

"Did you honestly want to know?" Mary asked, remembering John's stubborn denial to know anything about how Sherlock faked his suicide. All he'd cared about was why he'd been left out of the plot.

"Yeah, I did. I am a detective, though you lot seem to forget that, so I've always liked learning the answers to mysteries. Did he tell you?" Greg directed the last question back to John.

"No," John stated. "He wanted to, but I wouldn't let him. I couldn't care less about the how, I wanted the why."

Molly hadn't said a word throughout this conversation. Obviously, she knew how it had been done the whole time, so couldn't relate to being left in the dark. But in the next moment, Mary saw her do something very suspicious. Mary followed the interaction closely, scrutinizing every motion. Molly mouthed a few words at John—she wished she could make them out, but her lip reading was mediocre at best—and John nodded slowly. Molly glanced to Sherlock's empty chair, then to John, then to Mary. Mary made a quick effort to disguise the fact she was watching the pathologist like a hawk. Thankfully, it worked. Then, John shook his head side to side. What did it mean?

"Why don't we talk about something a little cheerier," Molly requested.

"Sounds like a great idea. This is supposed to be a celebration," John added.

"Dull," Rosie said.

"When did she pick that word up?" Greg asked huffily. "I've never heard someone so young complain of boredom. She's got a piece of her godfather in her after all." And just like that, Sherlock was back in the conversation. John grabbed the skull and gave it to Rosie, who immediately started playing with it as she usually did.

"That's her attempt at saying 'skull,'" John explained. "I told you it was her favorite toy."

"Yes, well hearing it and seeing it are two very different things."

"I just hope she doesn't ask for a complete set of bones once she's old enough to realize that most of them are missing. I think that would be rather difficult to obtain," John joked.

"Unless Molly's willing to pull some strings," Mary said.

"No, not even I could manage to get away with that." She was getting away with keeping this big secret, Mary thought. "A corpse without a skeleton is rather distinguishable from one that does have one." This, of course, made everyone laugh, although Mary's was somewhat forced. The rest of the party was completely mundane, although Rosie was commendably well-behaved with so many people around.

That night, Mary watched John write his second letter. While he was still working, she put the baby to bed and went to sleep herself. She thought that such a pleasant day would facilitate an easy sleep, but she had no such luck.

Fortunately, the scenario in which she relived the night at Magnussen's office and shot Sherlock in the head had all but removed itself from the nightmare roster. Unfortunately, her subconscious had lots of other horrid moments to play with.

Charles Augustus Magnussen. Why did it always have to be him? He'd been the primary catalyst of the decomposition of her life. The chain of events that led to Sherlock's demise had begun with Magnussen. In her previous career, Mary had encountered evil in nearly all its forms, but none so revolting as the modus operandi of that shark.

The culminating incident taking place at the aquarium only cemented that metaphor. A shark killed without discrimination; if it was meaty enough to sustain him, it was fair game. There was a good reason most people innately feared sharks.

On that fateful night, Mary hadn't paid much attention to the swimming monsters in the background. She'd been too distracted by the other creature: Vivian Norbury. Mary had been so busy blaming herself she hadn't taken enough time to contemplate her hatred of that woman. She caused the Tbilisi mission to go so horribly wrong, which resulted in the deaths of Alex and Gabriel. And then she'd killed Sherlock. Mary didn't take kindly to people picking off the people she cared about.

Of course Magnussen himself hadn't been there at the aquarium—he was dead. Sherlock had put a bullet in his brain ages ago. Mary never got the chance to thank him for that. But she understood that he'd played his role in setting off the chain of events that eventually brought Norbury out of hiding, so she painted him in.

Instead of sharks, the tanks all around them were full of dozens of Magnussens swimming in lazy circles. She should've been amused by the ridiculousness of it all, but she was too busy being terrified. Occasionally, one would pass directly by the glass and meet her gaze. Those dead eyes behind those stupid spectacles pierced her like an arrow. When the shot from Norbury's gun rang out, Mary didn't even hear it. She only heard the echoes of Charles Augustus Magnussen's horrible laughter.


	23. Infidelity

Mary had been dreading this day for a while now, but she was by no means prepared for it. The first anniversary of anything was a big deal, but the first anniversary of a death was particularly noteworthy. Two weeks ago, she called John's work and told them he'd need today off, and possibly even the day after. They'd been generously understanding and once she told them what today signified.

She went to check on Rosie, but found her daughter still asleep. She left her be for a little while longer and curled up in John's chair with a book. She glanced across from her at the perpetually empty black armchair. When they moved in, neither had ever considered removing it. It was as much a part of 221B as the very walls that kept it standing. Although John had never explicitly told her she was forbidden from sitting in it, Mary never did. It was like an honorary place setting at the table, only in armchair form. To have anybody sit there but Sherlock seemed a disservice. However, Rosie was exempt from this de facto policy. She didn't know why John allowed it, but she approved.

John eventually awoke and wandered into Rosie's room. Mary allowed him to rouse her because he'd need something ordinary to distract him from everything that today signified. She stood up and went to the kitchen to make breakfast for the three of them. She didn't mean to eavesdrop, but she still heard every word he spoke to their daughter.

"Dada?" she addressed him first. Mary could tell from her voice that she could tell something about her father wasn't completely right.

"Yes, Rosie?"

"Wet." God, he was crying. Of course he was crying, today marked one year since he'd lost his best friend. He was entitled to cry.

"Sorry about that. Today's going to be a little off for Daddy."

"Off?"

"Different from most days, okay? I'm sorry. But I promise, tomorrow will be better," John told her. Mary felt her own heart squeeze uncomfortably at the pure pain in his voice. He came out of the bedroom and set Rosie down in the living room before joining Mary in the kitchen.

"Good morning," he greeted mutedly.

"Good morning," she replied. "Although I suppose today isn't much good, is it?" John shook his head dejectedly. "I'm sorry. Whatever you need me to do, just ask." She was still doing everything she could to get him to open up to her. For the most part, her efforts yielded nothing, but she wouldn't stop trying until she got him to release at least a little slack.

"Okay."

"Can I do anything for you right now?" She could hear the trepidation in her own voice, and hoped he was too out of it to notice. She really didn't want to say something out of turn today and set him off. She'd never known him to be volatile, but grief did strange things to people.

"No," he said.

"Okay."

"Can we visit?" he asked. She knew he was referring to the gravesite without having to ask him for clarification. Neither of them had been since the funeral, and it seemed an important part of the mourning process.

"Of course," she told him. "All three of us?" She wasn't sure if he'd want to bring Rosie along, given how young she was.

"Yes," he said without hesitation. "We should teach her young."

"Okay." He was right; Rosie should never be able to remember a time when Sherlock wasn't part of her life in some way. It was crucial they familiarize her with the story throughout her life so that she wouldn't one day be startled by the existence of a man who'd had such an impact on her parents. Conveying the idea of his death would be difficult for a child so young, but she'd come to understand it as she grew older.

Throughout the morning, Rosie was far less well-behaved than usual. Mary could tell she was picking up some of the negative, depressed energy emanating from John. She tried her best to keep her calm while monitoring John for any signs he might need something. For the most part, he didn't speak. Nor did he eat. He'd ignored the breakfast she laid out and refused lunch. Mary supposed she couldn't expect anything better.

That afternoon, they visited the cemetery where Sherlock was buried—for real this time. Mary remembered when John had taken her here just before his failed proposal. She could feel the tangible connection between him and the supposedly dead man like an invisible string that suddenly went taught. She felt the same thing here and now, although this time her own insides also twisted with the yank of the thread.

Staring at the stark marble, she was struck with memories of Sherlock when he'd been alive, full to bursting with manic energy. She couldn't picture him lying still six feet under. It wasn't right.

Mary decided to break the silence, "I can't believe it's already been a year. Seems like just yesterday he was trying to steal you away from me at all hours to go work on a case."

"Yeah," John exhaled slowly. "I can't tell if this had been the longest or the shortest year of my life." Mary knew her own answer to that: longest. But she didn't want to misinterpret John, so she remained silent. Rosie clearly wanted to be put down, so Mary gently placed her little feet on the ground and let go. She wandered up to the grave in front of them that was barely shorter than she. John got down to her level and told her about the importance of this place and this day: "Your godfather is buried here, Rosie. I'm sure you've heard me talk about him. Your godfather and I used to go on crazy adventures together, and get into all sorts of trouble. Those stories I read to you sometimes, those are about us and everything we did. When you were very small, we'd visit him, though I doubt you'll ever remember that. You seemed to like him, and I know he liked you." Mary held back tears at the pure innocence conveyed in John's speech. Of course Sherlock had loved Rosie as if she were his own. The toddler stepped closer to the stone and placed a tiny hand on its surface. Mary eased closer to John and put her arm around his shoulder to remind him she was there, that she'd always be there for him.

"Do you remember Sherlock, Rosie?" Mary doubted she'd receive any answer, but Rosie decided to parrot her to the best of her ability.

"Lock."

"Yes, that's right," Mary cooed. She picked her up again and turned to leave. "Let's give Daddy a little time by himself, okay?" Mary knew there were probably things he wanted to say without her hearing. She carried Rosie back towards the entrance to the cemetery, giving John as much space as she thought he needed. He did eventually begin speaking, and she kept going until she couldn't hear him anymore.

She knew he'd want to leave immediately after he finished his soliloquy, so she would have to mourn a little further away from the stone. She didn't speak aloud, but bounced Rosie a bit while projecting her thoughts. She hoped Sherlock could somehow hear her. She told him how much she and John both missed him, how much she wished she could go back and change what happened that night. Her chest felt a little lighter after that.

When John joined her, he looked more haggard and dejected than he had a mere hour ago. She wondered what sorts of things he'd said at the grave and hoped they'd managed to ease the pain at least a little bit.

"Are you okay?" she asked. He nodded in response. He wasn't being entirely truthful, she could tell. "Because you look like you've seen a ghost." He paled noticeably, but she had no idea why that comment would have such a profound effect. "This place isn't haunted, is it?" She tried for humorous. She shouldn't have tried for humorous.

"Why would you think that?" He sounded accusing and afraid all at the same time. "Did you hear something strange?" A wild animal panic filled his eyes, and she wanted to go back and unsay it.

"No," she insisted. "Just you talking."

"You could hear me talking?"

"Only for a little bit, then I got farther away." She was definitely weirded out now. Why would he get so upset over the idea that she heard him speak? Speaking to someone at their grave was a pretty normal thing to do.

"Okay. Let's go now," John hissed. He struck off and she could do nothing but follow him. Her brain was working overtime trying to process why he'd reacted like that. The voice in her head had risen from a whisper to a shout: "He's lying! He's lying!" and she knew that the voice was justified. Scott had to be wrong, because her instincts would never insist on something so vehemently unless there was truth to it. John was hiding something, and she'd be damned if she didn't figure out what.

When they got home, she mentally prepared herself to confront him. She stepped into the room, hands on her hips, and opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She couldn't in good moral standing go after him on today of all days. All the furious energy drained out of her when she saw where he'd gone upon entering the living room. He held the photograph of him and Sherlock in his hands in a white knuckled grip. He wasn't crying, but she almost would've preferred it if he was. Instead, he elicited a sentiment of utter defeat. His eyes were completely devoid of warmth, instead projecting despair and darkness. Mary ran from the room crying.

~0~

She avoided John for several hours, too emotionally fragile to face him. Something inside of him had cracked at that graveyard, allowing the raw pain usually locked inside to leak out. Mary couldn't handle it. She thought nothing could be worse than the look in his eyes when he stared at that photograph, but then she heard him say something that triggered so many alarm bells that Mary thought her head would explode:

"Where's my gun?"

She knew the answer to this question: gone. She remembered how utterly repulsed she'd been by the sight of it in the drawer. Instead of packing it to move to Baker Street with them, she'd ensured it was gotten rid of properly. If she never laid eyes on a firearm again, it would be too soon. But what chilled her blood was the reason John was asking after it on today of all days. Why did he want it? She was scared to find out.

She asked John, "What do you need it for?" Her voice quavered with anxiety.

He looked at her earnestly and repeated himself sternly, "Where. Is. It?" Not one ounce of Mary regretted disposing of the gun so long ago. If she hadn't done so, he would've simply picked it up and done whatever it was he was so determined to do today. The absence of the weapon forced him to go through her, and she vowed to prevent whatever would've happened.

"Not here," she told him. "I'll tell you where it is if you tell me why you need it."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"You'll be angry."

"John," she said cautiously. Everything he was saying right now confirmed her darkest suspicions. She'd known today would be hard, but she hadn't dreamed he'd go this far. "I'm not angry. I'm concerned about you. I know today is tough, but you've been doing so well. You can't throw it all away."

"What?" He sounded honestly confused, and for an instant Mary wondered if she'd misread his intentions.

"John, I'm going to assume the worst unless you tell me what's really going on."

He sighed, and then pointed to the bullet holes in the living room wall. "He used to take his frustrations out on the wallpaper. I thought I'd do the same."

Mary felt the building anxiety whoosh out of her like air from an untied balloon. He hadn't want to use the gun on himself, but on the wall. No words could describe just how relieved she was. But now she had to explain to him why that particular stress reliever was no longer available.

"John, the gun's not here," she began.

"You said that already," he commented.

"I know. But, it's true. It's… gone. I got rid of it."

"Why?" he asked earnestly.

"I couldn't handle it," she explained. "After what happened, I couldn't face having something so destructive in arm's reach. Especially with a baby around." She added the part about Rosie because it made her actions more reasonable. In reality, she'd barely thought of the baby when she decided to get rid of the gun. It was her own disgust that drove her actions, disgust with weaponry, disgust with Norbury, and disgust with herself. "I'm sorry, John," she continued. "I should've asked you, but we were both so busy with the move that I took matters into my own hands."

"It's okay," he assured her. "Shooting up the walls isn't a good idea, anyway. I can see that now. Mrs. Hudson would have a fit; she thought she was through with that sort of thing."

"Are you sure?" Mary asked. "I know it was rather important to you."

"I'm sure."

~0~

They both required a bit of time to bounce back after such a somber anniversary. Mary was glad to have it behind them, but she knew an even more difficult occasion remained ahead of them. But she refused to let dread of the second year tarnish any happy moments that came in between. Rosie was growing into a bubbly little girl with an insatiable curiosity and ever-increasing vocabulary, and life couldn't possibly be all bad with her around.

When their second wedding anniversary rolled around, Mary endeavored to do something, even a miniscule something, to acknowledge it. The first anniversary had come too soon after the incident to dare celebrate. But this time would be different. She and John both needed another reason to cheer up.

"John, do you know what today is?" she cautiously asked that morning.

"Yes," he sighed. She knew he recognized what had happened last year. She only hoped he didn't feel guilty for ignoring it.

"Happy anniversary."

"Happy anniversary."

"I think we should do something tonight," Mary suggested. "We haven't had a date night in ages." Most new parents experience a lull in romance with a baby in the house, and their circumstances had only magnified it. But she would not allow them to spend the rest of their lives avoiding doing anything even remotely romantic out of some twisted respect for Sherlock. He wouldn't want that.

"You're right," John answered. "I'll ask Mrs. H if she'd be okay with watching Rosie for the evening."

"Okay."

That night, with Rosie safely in Mrs. Hudson's flat, John and Mary went out to dinner. She couldn't even remember the last time they'd done something like this. She was a bit startled to realize it was on their honeymoon. That was too long ago.

"I'm so glad we get to do this," Mary said as they sat down.

"Me too," John replied. They stared at each other for a few moments, totally at a loss for words. They had so much to talk about, and at the same time had nothing to say. Just to break the silence, Mary started a conversation about the weather, which kept them going for three minutes or so. The things she really wanted to talk about might scare him away.

"How are you?" John eventually asked her. "I don't mean superficially, I mean truly: how are you handling this?"

Her brain locked up. That was what she'd been working up her courage to ask him, and now he'd turned it back on her. But fortunately, she had an honest answer: "I'm mostly worried about you."

"About me?"

"Yeah. You haven't been yourself at all. Whenever you talk to me, I get this feeling that you're not telling me everything." Maybe she was being a bit too forward with him, but she wanted answers, and this might be the best way to get them. It being their anniversary, she hoped that love for her would make John more open to telling Mary whatever he'd been hiding all this time. Because, no matter what Scott said, Mary knew she was right about him. Her gut hadn't lied to her once in her lengthy, tumultuous career.

"Well, I don't know what to tell you," John sighed.

"I know it's unreasonable to expect you to be right as rain, but you haven't been improving as steadily as you were. Sometimes I even fear that you're regressing," she confessed.

"I'm trying, Mary, I really am. But sometimes it's just hard to even get up in the mornings. Talking to Scott helps, but he can only do so much."

"You know that I'm always here for you, John. If there's something you can't or won't tell Scott, you can come to me."

"I know that, and thank you, but I don't want to be a burden."

"John, you could never be a burden even if you tried."

"Debatable," he muttered.

"No. It is absolutely not debatable. Have you forgotten that you're my husband? I made a vow to see you through sickness and health, and this certainly counts. If there's ever anything you want to get off your chest, please do not hesitate to come to me." She could tell he was taking her words to heart and considering revealing something, and she had to bite her tongue not to snap at him to get out with it. She'd coaxed him this far; she couldn't ruin it now by being impulsive. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again and mulled over for a moment. When he finally did speak, his declaration was unlike anything she could've expected:

"I cheated on you."


	24. Candor

"I cheated on you."

The words reverberated in Mary's head like a struck gong. Of all the scenarios she'd dreamt up, this was not one of them. Not even close. She thought he might have started drinking again and was too embarrassed to tell her. Or he'd been hurting himself like he had that first morning afterwards. Or that he continuously thought he saw glimpses of Sherlock and wouldn't tell her for fear she'd deem him psychotic. But an affair? That didn't even cross her mind.

One of John's most defining features was his undeniable loyalty. She knew he denied Mycroft's opportunity to spy on Sherlock for money after knowing him for barely a day, and shot a man stone dead to protect him not long after. She remembered jokingly comparing him to Toby the bloodhound: "handy and loyal." Apparently he was only one of those things.

To say Mary was surprised would be a gross understatement. She felt like she was slowly plummeting down the mountainside of everything she thought she knew. She couldn't even find it in herself to be offended; she was too busy rearranging her world view. When she tried to respond to John, no words would come. She just stared at him emptily, wondering how she could've missed something like this. She was no Sherlock Holmes, but she did know how to read people, and she'd thought she had John Watson all figured out.

How long had this been going on? Since before Rosie was even born? Was it a one-time thing, or a continuous string? Was it with one woman, or had John been running a series of mistresses behind her back? Had Sherlock known? Mary's head swam with so many unanswered questions.

"I know what you're thinking," John eased. There was no way he could possibly knew everything she was thinking right now when she couldn't even keep track of it herself. "But I hope you'll let me explain. You're entitled to just walk out right here, but please don't. Hear me out."

There was no way in hell she was leaving without getting some answers. "Go on," she prompted, trying to keep the urgency out of her tone. Finally, she was going to get some insight into whatever John had been hiding all this time.

"There was this girl on the bus," he explained. Mary wasn't sure she liked where this was going. "And I had a plastic daisy in my hair. I'd been playing with Rosie… and this girl just smiled at me." Mary waited for the outline of how they'd then hooked up, but John surprised her yet again. "That's all it was; it was a smile. We texted constantly. You wanna know when? Every time you left the room, that's when. When you were feeding out daughter; when you were stopping her from crying—that's when."

"And then?" she knew there had to be more.

"That's all it was, just texting," he said. That hardly counted as cheating, at least in Mary's book. She'd probably texted other men without even a second thought many times since they'd been married. Hell, she texted Mycroft all the time, but that didn't mean she was cheating on John. Of course, the nature of the messages was probably different, but she frankly didn't care. What mattered was that he'd kept this from her for so long, thinking the truth would enrage her enough to walk out on him. John, her John, felt so guilty about such a minor offense that he'd let this secret fester and eat him up for over a year. She really didn't deserve him.

"It was just texting?" Mary confirmed.

"Yes."

"Do you still text her?"

"No. I broke it off."

"When?"

"Just before the incident."

Mary couldn't stop herself from laughing just a little bit. This was the most pitiful affair she'd ever heard of, and John was acting like he'd committed adultery. She shook her head and asked him: "John, you do realize that you did next to nothing wrong, right?"

He hesitated, then stuttered, "N—no?"

"John, you texted her for a while, maybe the texts were a bit romantic, but who cares? Flirting isn't illegal. And then you felt so bad for being 'unfaithful' that you broke it off. You did everything right."

"But I didn't shut it down immediately," he said meekly.

"Nobody's perfect. The fact that you told me and that you seem so torn up about it makes up for all of that. Thank you for telling me. I hope now that this is in the open we can move past it and strengthen our relationship."

"So… you're not angry?"

"Of course I'm not angry, stop being stupid," she teased. "Besides, you seem to have punished yourself enough, you don't need me to be mad at you."

"Are you sure?" God, what had she ever done to deserve this man.

"Yes. You managed to forgive me for far more grievous sins than texting another woman, so it's only fair I forgive you."

"Only fair," he parroted.

"Yes. Now, I believe our food is here, and I'm starving."

~0~

"Scott, I'm afraid I have to brag to you about my success," Mary told him at their next appointment.

"Please, I'm all ears."

"John was hiding something from me, although it wasn't nearly as pivotal as I'd expected. We went out to dinner for our second anniversary, and he confessed that he cheated on me a while back."

"He cheated on you?" Scott seemed almost as surprised as Mary had been. Of course, he knew enough about John from their sessions to understand that cheating went against practically everything he stood for.

"Not really. It was only texting, and he broke it off. But apparently he felt guilty enough to end up acting strangely around me."

"Well, I'm glad you figured it out. I'm sorry for doubting you."

"Apology accepted."

"How has this revelation affected your relationship?"

"I feel like a weight's been lifted off both our shoulders. I've mostly stopped worrying about him, and at least I think he's stopped worrying about that incident upsetting me. We talk to each other more easily now. Before, I felt like I was walking on eggshells."

"Good, good," Scott chimed.

"I hope that conversation helped him to realize that I'm not someone to keep secrets from, but someone in whom he can confide, you know?"

"Of course. I think that's a very important part of a marriage. But you do have to ask yourself, are there things that I would keep from him?"

Mary thought for a moment about everything she had, in fact, kept from him. Massive, life-altering secrets that had torn at the very fabric of their lives. She hadn't wanted to reveal them, but that power had been forcibly removed from her hands by none other than Sherlock Holmes. Since then, there were only little things: the note cards she'd found from the wedding, some of the things she knew about Mycroft's current state of mind, the fact that she, too, had therapy sessions with Scott. But those were all for his protection.

"Yes, I've kept things from him. The major stuff I revealed to him long ago," she said without revealing any details. "But there are small things, things that he's better off not knowing."

"Some philosophers argue that all lies, even white lies, are unacceptable. What do you think about that?" he prompted. She felt like she was back in school participating in some graded debate. But the stakes were higher now than they were back then.

"I disagree," she initially said. Hiding her true past from John had been the right thing to do because it kept him safe. Until it didn't. Maybe this whole crisis could have been averted if she'd been honest from the start. John definitely would've exiled her from his life the second he knew the truth. He didn't recognize his own propensity for dangerous situations and people. But if that had happened, a lot fewer people would've gotten hurt. "Well… maybe not," she amended. "Always knowing the entire truth leaves a lot less wiggle room. People make mistakes when they think they understand things that they actually don't. But then again, minor lies about a haircut or something stupid like that are just a kindness. Nobody likes brutal honesty. Sorry, am I rambling?"

"No, not at all. It's a very thought-provoking question I just proposed, and there is no right or wrong answer. I just wanted to make you reconsider your opinion on this sort of thing."

"Well, you've definitely accomplished that."

"Feel free to interrupt me if I misinterpret your words, but from what you've been saying I can extrapolate that you think people don't always know what's best for others. By lying or hiding the truth—and there is certainly a distinction—they can open the door for misunderstanding and unintended consequences. But there are other things that actually have no bearing on how people live their lives, like the haircut example you used, where dishonesty is acceptable because it literally doesn't matter."

"You hit the nail on the head," Mary confirmed.

"Then let me ask you: you got your confession out of John, is there anything you need to say to clear the air even further?"

~0~

That conversation with Scott urged Mary to tell John a few things she'd been keeping for a while. That very same day, she approached him and told him that she, too, had consulted a therapist to deal with the aftermath of the incident.

"John, I need to tell you something," she began.

"Sure. Anything," he answered.

"After I saw how much Scott helped you, I decided to meet with him myself. I've been seeing him for a while now, and he sort of made it my homework today to consider some things I ought to tell you."

He paused, looking her up and down before replying, "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"Frankly, I don't know," Mary admitted. "It doesn't make any sense. But then again, neither of us have been making all that much sense lately."

"Fair enough. But I'm glad you feel comfortable enough to tell me that. Has he helped?"

"Yes. He got me this far, didn't he?"

"It would seem so. Do you talk about me?"

"Of course. You're a big part of my life. But he can't tell me anything you talk about with him because of confidentiality and all that. Don't you talk about me?"

"Yeah." She sensed some hesitation and wondered just how prevalent a topic she was in John's conversations with the therapist. It was very possible that she wasn't discussed all that often, and she wasn't quite sure how she felt about that. Shaking away those thoughts, she returned to the matter at hand.

"There's another thing…" she didn't know how to put this into words. It was a thought that had niggled at the back of her mind that she'd attempted to ignore, but it was gaining strength. They weren't the only two who needed assistance to cope with this tragedy, there were plenty of others.

"Don't tell me you cheated on me," John joked.

"No," she stated firmly. "It's just—I'm worried about Mycroft."

"You're worried about him? Mary, that man practically runs the country; I think he can take care of himself."

"John, he may run the country, but his real job was always looking after Sherlock. And the past few times I've spoken to him, he hasn't been himself. And I know him, he's not going to ask for help, he'll try to shove everything down and handle it himself, and it's not going to work. You and I both know it doesn't work."

"Okay, I see your point. But what are we supposed to do? Stage an intervention?"

"I wouldn't use that word, but essentially, yes." She hadn't been entirely sure how she wanted to take action until that point, but once John suggested it she knew that's exactly what they needed to do. Mycroft had done so much for both of them in the time they'd known him; he deserved their help.

"You want to force help upon Mycroft Holmes? That's a suicide mission."

"No, John, it's not. He trusts us as much as he's ever trusted anyone in his life. You and I can talk some sense into him."

"Fine," he relented. "But you're taking the lead on this."

~0~

Take the lead she did. She texted Mycroft and arranged for him to come visit at the soonest possible date. Even just reading his reply, she could tell something was different. The text wasn't crisply punctuated like ones he used to send, and there was even a spelling error. Mycroft Holmes in a proper state of mind didn't misspell.

Mary attempted to rehearse how she would address the elder Holmes, but nothing came to mind. She decided she'd have to wing it and hope her brain was able to generate something helpful when it came down to it.

"Please, tell me why you've summoned me here," Mycroft insisted. John eyed Mary, silently telling her that he was going to participate in this conversation minimally.

"We're worried about you," Mary admitted, deciding to start with the truth instead of dancing around it.

"Why?"

"All three of us have been struggling this past year, and understandably so. John and I have both spoken to a therapist, and it has helped immensely. I know you're well aware of opportunities like that, but I wanted to talk to you in person about whether or not you've taken advantage of them."

"Openly discussing my 'feelings' with a stranger is not exactly my style," he said scathingly.

"I know that. But these circumstances are different than any you've ever faced before. I remember when you came to John just a little while after it happened and asked him for advice. He told you that it just takes time, and it does. But quite a bit of time has passed, and from what I can tell you're not improving as you should be at this point."

"I assure you, I am fine—"

"Don't give me that," Mary was surprised to hear John interjecting into the conversation. "You and Sherlock both try to hide when you're hurt, and it always makes things worse." She knew he was remembering when Sherlock fled hospital and ran rampant about London bleeding out into his chest just to reveal Mary's secret to John. It was insane, and she wished he'd had a little more regard for his own health and safety. But denial of self-care must have run in the family, because Mycroft displayed the exact same trait. "Mycroft, I've been where you are, twice now. The first time, I tried to forget, and it didn't work, not even close."

"Different people handle grief in different ways," Mycroft argued.

"Yes, and how's that working out for you?" Mary asked smugly. Even sitting here in this room, Mycroft radiated an aura alarmingly different from the one Mary knew. Gone was the arrogant superiority, and in its place a palpable sadness.

"No very well, huh?" John questioned.

Mycroft sighed, knowing he didn't stand a chance against both Watsons. "No, not very well."

"Have you tried to seek help?" Mary inquired.

"No."

"Why?"

"Because I've never needed help before. I'm supposed to be able to handle things, to get others out of a tight spot. But evidently my abilities do not extend to helping myself."

"It's impossible to pull yourself out of a hole. You need someone at the top who can reach down and guide you back to the surface."

"I don't particularly enjoy metaphors."

"Then let me rephrase: You need someone else. You can't handle this all on your own, no matter how much effort you throw at it. It's physically and psychologically impossible," Mary explained. Mycroft seemed to accept this explanation, though he gave minimal indication.

"Now, is there something you think you should tell us? We're not therapists, but we've learned a lot in the past year," John added.

"I feel… like I've failed," Mycroft admitted. Mary and John looked at each other knowingly. "Ever since he was born, it was my job to protect him. And I failed. And now, I don't have a real purpose anymore."

"That's completely understandable. But you need to understand that you didn't fail, Mycroft. You did everything you could, and it may have not been enough, but that doesn't mean that you could've done better. There are just some things that are beyond anyone's control. None of this was your fault. Got it?"

He nodded miserably. Mary knew exactly how he felt, had been in his shoes not all that long ago before Molly had set her straight. It was a horrible place to be, but it was possible to escape. Mary then asked another question she thought relevant: "Have you visited the stone?"

"A few times."

"And what did you do those few times?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" Mary didn't think that was possible. Cemeteries always evoked some sort of action or reaction from people who came to visit loved ones.

"Nothing," he repeated.

"I think you should go back, and do something this time. Tell Sherlock something he didn't know when he was alive, something important. I've learned that clearing the air can be immensely helpful." She saw the corner of John's mouth quirk up in a half-smile.

"Why should I speak to a block of stone? It can't possibly hear me."

"Too literal, Mycroft. I don't care if you don't believe in Heaven or anything like that, you just have to speak as if he could hear you. Because the truth is, you don't know if he can or not. You will never know until you, too, eventually die. And if it turns out he did hear you, all the better."

At this point, John disappeared into the kitchen to make tea, and Mary watched Mycroft silently contemplate this new advice. She knew it went against almost everything he pretended to stand for: absence of sentimentality and cold logic. But nobody could lose a little brother and remain entirely stoic.

"How is Dr. Watson holding up?" Mycroft asked her, quietly enough to avoid John overhearing.

"You can call him John, you know that, right?"

"Yes."

"Well, he's doing okay, I guess. Some days are harder than others, but I've gotten him to open up to me a bit more and it seems to have helped."

"Good. I remember last time was incredibly difficult for him, and I would hate for him to suffer a repeat of that experience."

"Shut up!" Mary and Mycroft froze when they heard that outburst from John in the other room. There was no way he had heard what they were saying, but then who was he speaking to? There was nobody else in the flat. Mary watched Mycroft clearly switch into what she knew was a Holmes' 'deduction mode.' He held a finger to his lips and snuck closer to the kitchen so he could hear any subsequent comments without John seeing him. Mary held her breath, knowing that if Mycroft Holmes was suspicious, something important and potentially dangerous was going on.

They both fell so utterly silent that even Mary could hear John's every move. He was so engrossed in whatever he was doing, be it making tea, thinking, or talking to himself, that he didn't notice the living room had completely quieted.

"Just shut up and, please, go away."

Long pause.

"I want you to leave me alone. For good."

Short pause.

"I most certainly do not. I need real people."

Shorter pause.

"No," he stated firmly. Then the one-sided conversation stopped. Mycroft crept close to Mary and whispered his deductions in her ear:

"He has conversations like this often, this is just the first we've happened to witness. Something is amiss, but I can't tell for sure unless I have more evidence. Next time he goes to work, text me and I will bring covert surveillance. Blink twice if you understand me."

Mary blinked twice, dumbfounded. She knew this was odd behavior, but Mycroft was acting like he'd caught him discussing how to commit a murder. It seemed so illogical that John would regularly talk to himself or some made-up entity, but Mary trusted Mycroft's skill and believed him wholeheartedly. They returned to their seats just before John came back with the tea. Mary forced the shocked expression off her face, and Mycroft looked as schooled as always.

"How is Rosie?" he asked. They were decidedly not letting on that they'd heard any of what John said. Mary started to answer, but John beat her to it.

"She's doing great. She sleeps and eats pretty well for a child her age, and she seems happy most of the time."

"Yeah, her crying has really toned down in the past months," Mary said, glad for something to distract her from the shock.

"I'm sure she'll grow into a wonderful adult with two parents such as you," Mycroft complimented.

"Thank you. We're certainly trying our best," she chirped. The natural flow of the conversation had ceased, and she sensed Mycroft's imminent departure. He insisted he must return to work; Mary swore the man was on call twenty four seven.

"You will heed our advice, won't you?" Mary asked. She hoped they'd gotten through to Mycroft, and she'd hate to find out that all this work had been for nothing. That, and she truly wanted the elder Holmes to get the help he needed and deserved. Losing a brother is not something one should ever have to do alone.

"Of course," he said firmly.

"I'll be checking in with you," she said, hoping he understood her double meaning. She would ask him not only about his progress in grief management, but also about whatever he had planned for monitoring John. The look in his eyes told her everything she needed to know, so she and John bid him farewell and returned to the living room.

"That was certainly productive," Mary remarked. It certainly was, and for her, in more ways than one.

"Yes. Did that ease some of your worries?" John asked her.

"Yeah, some." It had erased all her concerns about Mycroft, but had dredged up new ones about John. Who was he talking to like that, and why? What did he mean by needing 'real people.'

"I'm glad."

Mary changed the subject back to Mycroft to ensure John had no idea they were on to him, "I just couldn't bear to see him handle something like this all on his own. If we hadn't intervened, he might've just self-combusted from the stress of it all."

"Well, I'm not sure it was that severe, but we definitely pushed him in the right direction."

"Yeah. Thanks for your help."

"You're welcome."


	25. Apparition

The next time John went to work, Mary texted Mycroft that the flat was empty. He responded immediately; she expected no less from him, especially with the way he was acting earlier. She'd never before seen him so on edge and freaked out. Whatever his observational skills had picked up about John must be truly terrifying. Mary had heard exactly what he'd heard, and she, too, was afraid of the connotations of what she'd heard. John was talking to something in his own head-something he wanted gone.

Mycroft arrived at her door in person not even half an hour later, armed with a multitude of tiny cameras. She didn't bother to ask where he got them. It was no secret that he'd bugged 221B Baker Street before to monitor his younger brother.

"He's at work, so we have as much time as we need," Mary informed him. Mycroft nodded curtly and proceeded into the living room. Together, they planted hidden cameras in strategic locations with multiple angles centered on John's chair and some in the kitchen. They'd already witnessed an episode in the kitchen, and Mary knew he spent more time in that armchair than most other places in the flat. She drew the line at allowing Mycroft to bug their bedroom or bathroom, and Rosie's room was irrelevant.

While they worked, Mary mustered the courage to ask Mycroft if he'd obeyed her command to seek help.

"You'll be pleased to note I have. I spoke with a therapist a few days ago, and I believe the visit was marginally successful," he denoted.

"Great," she responded. He said it with such a detached tone that he wasn't entirely convincing. She knew no drastic leaps were accomplished in one session, but she expected him to seem a bit more effected by what had been a novel and probably uncomfortable experience. "What did you talk about, if you don't mind my asking," she continued.

"Would you be angry if I did mind?"

Mary wanted to say yes, that she demanded some feedback from the appointment she'd practically forced him to attend, but she couldn't do it. Mycroft and Sherlock had decades of history that she hadn't the faintest idea of, and losing a sibling, particularly a younger one and in such horrid circumstances, was an experience she could never completely understand.

"Of course not. I just wondered if you were one of those people that would benefit from relaying your experience. It's clear that you're not, and that's alright. I'm sorry for asking," she said.

"No need to apologize. I already opened up once, and I'm not too keen on doing it again."

"Understandable," Mary remarked. She remained silent while they continued working, and when they were satisfied that they had adequate coverage of the flat, they settled down and Mary finally questioned the elder Holmes about something else: the reason for all this fuss. "Mycroft, I'm freaked out. I need to know what you saw that justifies all this," she insisted, gesturing to their handiwork.

"Well, you and both heard what he said. People don't say things like that when they're mindlessly talking to themselves. Usually they either whisper reminders, self-encouragement, self-discouragement, or sing song lyrics. This was certainly none of those things. He was speaking to someone else. And I could follow his gaze; he continually fixated on one spot in the corner of the room before averting his eyes entirely. Whatever he 'saw' there, he didn't like it."

"What do you think it was?"

"I can't be sure. That's why we're doing this."

"Spying on him?" Mary had allowed Mycroft to set this up, though now that it was actually done she was having second thoughts. She had an innate distrust of being watched, and the idea of doing it to her husband made her nauseous. "Is there no other way?"

"Mary, whatever is plaguing him needs to be stopped as soon as possible. This is the quickest way to get answers. We could try to coax it out of him slowly, but I fear we'd be too late."

She knew Mycroft was right, and she did truly want to help John expeditiously, but the discomfort persisted. Maybe a part of her was afraid of what she might learn. She thought she'd convinced him to open up to her when he'd revealed the bit about cheating on her, but it was becoming apparent that incident was miniscule in comparison to whatever this was. She only hoped that she and Mycroft could fix it.

~0~

She'd been dreading the two-year anniversary for so long, that when it arrived she awoke with a physical weight on her chest. Glancing over at the other side of the bed, she saw John had already vacated the room. She crawled out of bed and got dressed, bracing herself for the imminent awful day. She foresaw neither of them being very functional as parents, so she took Rosie downstairs to Mrs. Hudson. The landlady understood, although she, too, was distraught. She'd probably be afraid to peek around corners for fear Sherlock would miraculously return from the dead and surprise her as he'd done last time.

She watched John closely throughout the morning, and she could tell he was anxious. Who wouldn't be, in a situation like that? She could do nothing but give him space and listen out for anything alarming. John pulled out his laptop and read for hours, scrolling through the entirety of his blog. She didn't have to see the screen to know what it was; there was nothing else he would read on a day like today.

She sensed the rising tension within him as the hours passed, and she knew that something riveting would occur on this day. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end whenever she glanced at John. It was as if he radiated distressed electricity. Around two in the afternoon, she notified Mycroft:

"It's the two year anniversary. Something's going down. I can sense it," she wrote. After a quick once over, she sent the message, only to receive a practically instantaneous reply.

"Leave the flat," came his curt response. Of course. If she was around, he might try to keep up appearances. If she and Mycroft wanted to know what was really going on, they needed him convinced he was alone and isolated.

"Where should I go?" Mary asked Mycroft.

"Come to my office. We will watch footage live."

She'd just been invited to a viewing party of her husband's potential meltdown. How splendid. She told John she was leaving, though she doubt he even registered the sound of her voice in the stupor he was in. He didn't even glance up at her when she spoke to him, which she took as a sign that he was wrapped up in his own head. She quickly made her way to Mycroft's, where he showed her inside to a room with a desk covered in countless computer monitors.

"So, is this, like, your control room?" she asked half-jokingly.

"Yes. Please, have a seat." He pulled up two chairs at the desk, and they sat staring at multiple views of the interior of 221B Baker Street. The multiple cameras they'd installed provided views of every possible corner of the main level. The first thing Mary registered was the glass of amber liquid in John's hand.

"Oh God, he's drinking," she gasped. He hadn't done that since Sherlock died, claiming that he knew even one would lead to the eventual one too many. Apparently the first time around, alcohol had been his drug of choice to try and forget the pain of losing his best friend. It had taken him two years to finally reach a point where he needed the boost.

He was sitting in his usual armchair, staring at the empty one opposite. Mary lost track of how many times she'd looked at that chair and wanted to throw it out to eliminate that reminder of his absence, but she knew John would never allow it. Getting rid of the chair was one step towards erasing Sherlock's memory, a step John was not willing to take. Besides, without it, the room appeared depressingly empty. She saw his lips move as he mumbled something under his breath, but the audio wasn't quite adept enough to pick it up. But soon afterwards, he began to speak at full volume.

"Have what?" he asked. She and Mycroft both followed his gaze to a spot next to the chair. He was directing his speech that way. He was answering a question, but they had no way to tell what he'd been asked and by whom.

"By doing what?" he questioned. Even through the hindered quality of the audio, Mary could detect the rising irritation in her husband's tone. She knew the drinks certainly hadn't helped his temper. Letting John Watson drink alcohol was like pouring kerosene on kindling; it drastically lowered the threshold for ignition. "Recklessly chasing after criminal with no regard for my own personal safety?"

What on Earth was he talking about? It was impossible to fill in all the gaps in the conversation without any clues as to who he was talking to and about what. Mary wished she could storm back to the flat and demand an explanation, but she knew she wouldn't get one out of him. Certainly not in this state. Mycroft inclined his head to look at her, and she knew he'd come to a conclusion about the identity of the imaginary speaker. A part of her had already reached it too, had done so a while ago, but she didn't like to consider it.

"Stop!" John shouted. Whatever he thought had been said must've upset him. Mary couldn't watch; she wanted to turn away because there's no way that was her husband speaking so vehemently to empty air. He looked like an actor rehearsing lines without a partner to practice with… or a schizophrenic battling his delusions.

"So what if it is? There's nothing I can do about it," he said forlornly. "I don't have your propensity for solving crimes, and I never will." There was no doubt now about who he was conversing with. Mary and Mycroft locked eyes as their worst fears were confirmed: Sherlock.

"Maybe I will, no thanks to you," John huffed. A pause while he listened.

"Actually, it was!" Mary knew now that she'd never seen her husband truly angry. This sight before her now was an entirely new level of rage she'd never encountered. And it scared her. "I voluntarily went to Afghanistan, knowing full well it was dangerous! I knew I could possible get shot, but I did it anyway. Had I decided I didn't want to risk that, I wouldn't have gone in the first place. You did the same thing: knowingly threw yourself into a dangerous situation. It just so happened Norbury had better aim than some Afghan rebels."

Okay, so he was upset with Sherlock reckless behavior. That made perfect sense. The detective had put John through hell with all his antics over the years. Mary had watched her poor husband attempt to wrangle him with varying degrees of success through all sorts of scenarios. Honestly, it was a miracle only one had ended in a tragedy of this degree.

"Why did you never change?" John questioned. The anger had drained out of his voice, replaced by desperation and sorrow. "Sherlock, you had a goddaughter, you had people in your life who cared about you and needed you, yet your still threw your life around like it was dispensable! How could you do this to us? To me?"

This was happening now. John was suffering now. He was arguing with a phantom of his deceased best friend, accusing him of throwing away his life knowing it would hurt those around him. Mary found she agreed with him. She'd tried everything she could to throw Sherlock off this scent, but he was relentless. His own tenacity had been his downfall.

"You were addicted," John remarked. "You were able to quit the drugs, but this ran even deeper." He stopped to listen again.

"But wouldn't you care if you died? Didn't you want to live to solve another mystery?" Mary knew the answer to that question: no. She hadn't known Sherlock for all that long, but she did know him pretty well. Almost every case he took on was a potential suicide mission. This of course included the actual suicide mission that Mycroft had nearly sent him on before being interrupted by the mass Moriarty broadcast. In fact, she was sure the only thing that had kept him alive was a sense of duty to John. But even that hadn't been able to save him from a bullet wound to the chest.

"I'm so honored to know I never had the pleasure of seeing you at your worst. How noble of you to keep it together for my sake." John's voice dripped with sarcasm. Mary looked at his face and saw the same expression she'd seen the night of Sherlock's return. When her husband was truly angry, he smiled. Not a pleasant smile, but a terrifying, I-am-ready-and-willing-to-beat-the-crap-out-of-you smile that sent shivers down her spine.

"And is this you returning the favor?" If possible, his sarcasm had been dialed up even further. Even though she wasn't even in the room, Mary felt the tension rising like the pressure in a gas tank.

"Well, you're doing a bloody brilliant job of it. Sherlock, I'm losing my goddamn mind talking to you like this. You're a fucking hallucination!" Mary clenched her jaw and had to close her eyes at this point. She couldn't look at John and listen to him struggle with his own mind. To think this had been going on for two whole years right under her nose, and she had no idea, it was more than she could handle.

"At least he recognizes that he's not real," Mycroft remarked. She glanced at the elder Holmes and saw his familiar expression of forced composure. He was right, but it was a small condolence when faced with the issue at hand.

"Please, tell me what it is that I so desperately need."

John fell silent after that, but he was clearly listening to something that the illusion was telling him. He closed his eyes tightly, maybe an attempt to banish the visions? Mary stared at the screen, utterly and completely flabbergasted by everything she'd just witnessed. John, her John, was so much worse off than she'd ever imagined. And she had no bloody clue what he was going through.

"That was… distressing," she managed to say.

"It's worse than I initially thought," Mycroft sighed dejectedly. "This is unlike anything I've ever seen before. It reminds me of the few times… the times Sherlock had taken too much, and started seeing things," he explained. "He would shout and thrash, usually convinced that anyone in his vicinity was trying to kill him. But this—this is worse."

"What can we do?"

"Mary, I wish I knew, but this is beyond me." Never had she heard the elder Holmes so readily admit defeat. It was a testament to the gravity of the situation. What could they do? Have him sectioned? Mary filed that option as a last resort. The idea of seeing him forced into treatment like that was too much to bear. And how would they explain to him that they knew what was going on? That would require admitting they'd bugged the flat, which wasn't something Mary was inclined to do. It was a breach of a trust she'd just worked so hard to strengthen. But it was worth having to rebuild that from the ground up if it would help John recover.

She looked at Mycroft with fire in her eyes and announced, "We have to tell him that we know." He didn't answer, and she didn't need him to. She would go through with this with or without his approval. But a curt nod from the elder Holmes showed she wouldn't have to go up against him. They stood up and, together, marched out of the room and back to Baker Street.


	26. Crux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, after ten chapters, we're back to John.

Moriarty.

The only person who could've made such a desperate situation even direr. And here he was. John had really lost it now. How had his brain distorted things so dramatically? When he finally reopened his eyes, he saw the two of them standing shoulder to shoulder, just as John and Sherlock often did. It seemed that in death, the detective had found a new friend. Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty, two sworn enemies, approached him as allies, promising they could help him regain his life.

"Please let us help," Sherlock coaxed again. John shook his head vehemently, slamming his eyelids shut against the blasphemous sight before him. This can't be happening, he told himself. It was all a dream, everything since Norbury, and he was going to wake up soon to the real Sherlock shouting about a case.

"Johnny," Moriarty's voice pierced his consciousness like a nail through a board. "We can't help you if you hide." John covered his ears with his hands in a feeble attempt to block the voices out. But of course this failed, as the voices were technically inside his head. Blocking his ears didn't alter the volume at all.

"Stop it!" he shouted. The tears started to fall, tears of frustration, pain, and heartache that had built up over the past two years. Now that the dam had burst, everything poured out in a torrent that could've wiped out an entire city. "Leave me alone!"

"If we did that, who would you have left?" Sherlock asked. Mary, Lestrade, Rosie, Molly, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson. John would have plenty. He was about to tell the illusion as much, but he spoke up first, "They're not enough for you. Didn't you learn that the last time? You need me."

Yes I do.

No I don't.

Yes I do.

NO I DON'T. John mentally shouted himself into submission. He may have needed the real Sherlock, but he was dead and there was no way to bring him back. John wouldn't see Sherlock again until Death came for him too.

"If that's what you want, John, why don't you expedite the process," Moriarty suggested. John clamped his hands down tighter, but it did nothing to drown out the lilting voice of the Irishman. "One little push, and off you pop."

"NO!" John screamed. He thought of the promise he'd made two years ago to a dying man, a promise to move on and live, a promise which he'd failed spectacularly to keep. "I'm sorry Sherlock," he choked. John fell to his knees in defeat, eyes and ears still defiantly shut. "I tried, but I don't think I can do this without you."

~0~

Mary and Mycroft were met with a basket case of a landlady when they arrived at Baker Street after a record-setting travel time. "Thank goodness you're here," she exclaimed. "He's been going on for a while, and I'm too frightened to go up there alone with the state he's in. I'm sorry."

"It's probably best you didn't," Mycroft assured. "I fear there's a chance he might've hurt you. Where's Rosie?"

"In the other room. She's upset, and I'm trying to comfort her, but nothing's working. She keeps shouting for her father, but of course I can't bring her to him."

"Just try to calm her down, we'll handle John," Mary instructed, already charging upstairs. She couldn't waste another second in getting to her ailing husband. She took the stairs three at a time and burst into the living room to find John crouched on the floor with his hands over his ears and his eyes clenched shut, pouring tears.

"Just go away. Go away, go away," he cried softly. Mary momentarily froze, before recognizing exactly what she needed to do. Without hesitation, she approached and supported him as he fell limply against her.

~0~

John registered a slight change in air currents and a familiar scent before he felt Mary's arms around him. With a heaving sob, he collapsed entirely into her embrace. He drank in her presence, the presence of a real, living person, as he continued to weep. His head rested on her shoulder while she raked a comforting hand through his hair, her other arm draped across his back.

"Shhh," she soothed. "I'm here now, you're safe."

"They won't go away," he whimpered. "I told them to leave me alone, but they won't go away."

"It's okay." Another gross sob escaped John's throat, yet he couldn't find it in himself to be embarrassed. He was already at the end of his tether and pulling hard enough to sever it entirely; he was far beyond any preservation of masculinity, sanity, or dignity.

"Mary, I'm losing my mind!" he desperately cried. He'd known this was happening for a while, but now he'd well and truly gone off the deep end. The events of today demonstrated that he'd reached the nadir of his slow, painful descent into madness. And, honestly, he saw no way out.

"No, you're not losing your mind, John." Mary's words did little to reassure him. What did she know? She hadn't seen what he saw. "You just wandered away from us for a little while, but you'll find your way back."

"I can't! Every time I try, he comes back."

"Who comes back, John?" she asked. She knew exactly who he was talking about—they both knew that—but she was encouraging him to say it aloud. John had nothing to lose, so he took a deep, trembling breath and explained:

"Sherlock." Just saying his name elicited another sob from his throat, but he managed to pull himself together again. Steeling himself for the battle ahead, he straightened up and sat back to face Mary. He could see in her eyes how frightened she was for him. It must've been a horrible experience to walk in on him like this; he reminded himself to apologize to her later.

"Tell me what happened," Mary instructed gently. John had kept this secret from her for two years. He'd justified it in many different ways, but looking back none had been reasonable. Frankly, he'd hidden this for purely selfish reasons: he hadn't wanted his wife to know he was going crazy.

"It—it was Moriarty," John sighed. "Sherlock has appeared to me before…but today he was there too… and they kept telling me they wanted to help. They wanted to bring excitement or something, to let me live the kind of life that I used to…and I know they're not real, but they looked and sounded so real…a part of me wanted to give in, to just do as they said and ignore the rest of the world. But then I remembered they're all in my head, and I can never live like that again because Sherlock's not here anymore. And I just…I want them to go." This last comment was barely audible, but Mary was so attuned to him that she would've heard him even if he just thought it.

"I know you do. I can help with that," she assured. That was the same thing Sherlock and Moriarty had said, but coming from Mary's mouth it took on a whole different meaning. He knew she had his best interest at heart, while the apparitions had only been luring him deeper into the clutches of insanity.

"You can?" John wasn't entirely convinced that he could be saved at this point. He felt like he was so far out to sea that he couldn't even see the shore anymore, much less reach it.

"Of course. Maybe not all by myself, but we will get you help. I promise." John leaned in for another hug which ended up lasting another fifteen minutes while he cried onto her shoulder some more. She whispered sweet nothings in his ear and traced comforting circles on his back until he was calm again.

Once they released each other, John glanced around the room for any signs of the apparitions, but the living room was devoid of them. Where Sherlock and Moriarty had stood was only empty space—which was, of course, what it had been the whole time. John had seen the illusions disappear more times than he could count, but none felt quite like this. They always left him with an unspoken vow to come back to him some day. This time felt different. They'd left John with a promise to never return.

~0~

That day rattled both Mary and John deeply, and they foisted Rosie off on a welcoming Molly Hooper while they took some time to recuperate. Now that John's secret was out in the air, he felt as if the red-hot iron ball he'd been carrying around in his stomach had finally been removed. He outlined the entire story from the beginning while Mary listened raptly. He tried not to focus on her reactions, because he knew he wouldn't like what he saw. Some of the things he'd done in the past two years were… questionable at best. She apologized repeatedly for not noticing his strife sooner, to which he replied:

"You did notice. You were always reminding me that you were there should I ever need to talk about anything. You knew something was up, and you tried so hard to get me to open up without being overbearing, but I was just too stubborn. I was fortunate enough to have another secret that was major enough to throw you off the scent for a while."

"John, I'm a former assassin. I should've easily spotted the decoy."

"Stop blaming yourself. I didn't want you to find out, and you didn't—until now. It's not your fault, Mary. The only thing you need to take credit for is saving me."

Now that John's head was relatively clear, he wondered how exactly Mary had known what was going on if she wasn't even in the flat. She had burst in just as he was toeing the edge of that precipitous cliff, a true deus ex machina. If it weren't for that, John didn't know what would've become of him. Because of that, he elected to ignore what was almost undoubtedly a bugged 221B and a spy mission.

It warmed his heart to know that his wife cared about him enough to plant cameras in their flat and monitor him remotely. Her drastic measures may have saved whatever shreds of sanity had remained in John's head. And she'd made the appointment with Scott that would hopefully help recover some more. One week after that fateful day, John would finally tell Scott the one piece of his psychological puzzle he'd been withholding.

"How are you today?" Scott asked. "We're finally past that pivotal turning point in your journey."

"About that…" John began. "There's something I haven't told you. Something big."

"And what would that be?" Scott looked at him, and John could tell he had absolutely no idea the scope of what he was about to learn.

"I've had delusions this entire time," he blurted out.

"What do you mean by delusions?"

"I would see Sherlock in the corner of the room, he'd talk to me, I'd talk back. This happened all the time, but I kept it secret from you and from Mary. She found out on the two-year anniversary when they got worse and I had a sobbing breakdown in the middle of my living room." John delivered the explanation in as detached a manner as he could, and he almost smiled watching Scott's eyes widen cartoonishly.

"I think you might want to start from the beginning," Scott prompted, turning to a fresh page in his notebook.

So John did. He started from the first interaction in the living room of 221B Baker Street and walked Scott through every conversation he'd had with the illusion that he could remember: from the screaming match at Bart's to the graveside argument of a year ago, all the way through to his meltdown with Mary. Scott often stopped him to clarify something or ask questions, and John gladly obliged. It was so liberating to finally outline this situation to someone who could actually help him. When John finished, Scott scanned over his notes and exhaled dramatically.

"Well, John, I must admit I didn't expect something like this when I saw my schedule for today. But it is definitely one of the most worthwhile conversations I will have, probably for the entire month. Thank you for telling me this. I know how difficult that must've been for you, and to relive it like that is no easy feat. How are you doing now, was that too much? Do you need a break?"

"No. I'm feeling great. Better than I have in a long time, actually."

"Wonderful. Now, have these 'illusions,' as you call them, appeared since this interaction with your wife?"

"No."

"Do you suspect they would have had she not arrived and prompted that conversation?"

"Yes. My guess is they would've followed me at all hours and whispered in my ears about how much they wanted to help me."

"And at no time did you consider that they might actually be able to assist, correct?"

"Not entirely. There was always a little voice in the back of my head that asked, why not? Why not listen to them? Why not surrender control? But I managed to quiet that voice."

"Does that voice still speak to you? In the past week, has it told you to seek these illusions out or reconsider their advice?"

"No."

"Alright then. Do you have any reason to believe they will return?"

"No. When the disappeared this time, it felt different—drastically different than it ever had before."

"Does that bother you?"

"Not at all. In the beginning, I somewhat enjoyed it. The illusion was so realistic it was like I had Sherlock back. He looked, sounded, and acted exactly like him. But as time went on, the illusion's personality started to change and I grew more and more afraid of what my interactions with it meant. I felt like I was going insane. I didn't want to speak with it, but at the same time I didn't want to give it up."

"When you say its personality started to change, what does that mean?"

"In the beginning, it kept reminding me that it wasn't real. It told me again and again that it was all in my head. It differentiated between itself and the real Sherlock Holmes. But then it stopped emphasizing that distinction. I would call it Sherlock and it wouldn't correct me like it used to."

"So, you're saying that your subconscious, or whatever dictated the dialogue of this illusion, gradually lost the awareness that you dreamt him up."

"Yeah, that sounds right. Rationally, I knew it wasn't real, but then why did I continue to interact with it?"

"John, you lost your best friend suddenly and violently. You were denied the time that most people have to properly conclude a relationship. It's reasonable that when you were presented with a way to remain in contact with Sherlock you jumped at the opportunity."

"But lots of other people were friends with him, and they didn't react like this."

"From what I know, nobody else on this Earth felt the way you do about Sherlock Holmes. Nobody was as affected by this tragedy as you were. It only makes sense that you reacted most viscerally."

"But why didn't this happen the first time?" John questioned. Since the illusion's first appearance, he'd wondered why something like this hadn't happened after the fake suicide.

"I can't say for sure, but it may be because you two weren't quite as close at that point in time. It's also possible that your subconscious drew on your experience from last time and attempted to devise a way to make this one go smoother."

"Well, it failed miserably," John huffed.

"As the human subconscious is wont to do. We're not perfect, John. I think these past two years have, for you, demonstrated that quite eloquently. I must ask, what made you withhold this information from me?"

"To be honest, I was afraid you'd have me sectioned." John spoke this comment lightly, but that fear had actually been a primary motivator in keeping his secret. He had worried that revealing this would point to a deeper mental illness requiring more intense treatment to which he didn't want to subject himself. "And if that happened, I worried what might happen to my wife and daughter."

"That's perfectly understandable, though I can assure you I have no intention of sectioning you."

"That's a relief."

"In all the time I've known you I have seen no indication that you are a danger to yourself or others. Your prioritization and loyalty to your family are commendable."

John remembered a year ago, when he'd searched for his gun only to find that Mary had gotten rid of it before they even moved to Baker Street. Though the memory was somewhat hazy, he knew that suicide had at least crossed his mind on that day. He'd told himself that he wouldn't do it that day, but would he have changed his mind had he actually gotten his hands on the revolver? The truth was, there was no way to know. The absence of the gun had ground that train of thought to a sudden halt.

Should he mention that incident to Scott, as well? John considered it before deciding that both he and the therapist had had enough revelations and reveals for one session. Besides, it had been a one-off and his thoughts hadn't even neared such a consideration since. He was confident that the confessions he'd already made would be enough to facilitate healing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we can all breathe a sigh of relief now. I know I did after writing this, all the pent-up tension releasing after so long.


	27. Resolution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now this is what I call coming full-circle. You will likely recognize the dialogue about to appear, only without the ambiguity and subsequent perspective-shift of last time.

A week after John's appointment with Scott, Mary made one of her own. She saw the leaps and bounds he'd made since the whole debacle and was eager to reach some closure of her own. Her worries about her husband assuaged, she finally had time to consider her own needs. Leaving a contented Rosie with her father, she visited their therapist for what would likely be one of the last times.

"So, it's been two years," Scott began. He told her he would begin the session by focusing exclusively on her and her reactions; they'd move on to include John later on.

"Yes, it has."

"The anniversary was…"

"Two weeks ago."

"I know that must have been a very difficult day for both of you, even more difficult than the one year mark."

"Yes, it was really hard. But from here on out things will pick up. Up until then, there was still some hope, you know? Even though I saw it happen, I also knew that he'd faked it once and made it seem realistic, then magically reappeared after two years. The window for miracle reappearance has now closed," Mary explained. This pivotal moment should feel like flipping a switch; she would one-eighty from picking up and examining pieces of her life to reassembling them into something great.

"How have things been in the weeks since then?" She knew how to answer this question for John, but Scott had requested she leave him out of this until he asked about him specifically. Her own answer was a tad more elusive.

"I think better? There's no easy way to quantitate it," she admitted.

"What about the nightmares? Have they eased?"

"Actually, yes. I've slept through the night all but twice since the anniversary." Both her mind and body were glad for the uninterrupted rest, and her energy levels benefitted from the more healthy sleep schedule. She could tell John's dreams had eased as well. She was no longer awoken by his thrashing, and he was almost always still beside her in bed when she awoke in the mornings. That was something she'd taken for granted in the very beginning of their relationship. She didn't realize how much she valued simply waking up beside her loving husband until she endured a period without it.

"That's fantastic," Scott said. "Now, I have to ask, do you think that's entirely due to the passing of that milestone, or have some of the things we've talked about helped?" He was practically asking for a customer review of service, but she was happy to give it to him. He was bloody good at his job and deserved to know it.

"You've definitely helped. I think things have eased both because of your advice and the passing of two whole years. Time and guidance, that's all anyone really needs, isn't it?"

"It's possible. It's a tried-and-tested formula for handling a lot of things."

"Very true."

"How's John?" Scott finally inquired after a long, silent pause. Mary eagerly progressed from talking about herself to discussing John.

"John is… improving," Mary said truthfully. Two weeks ago, she wouldn't have been able to say this. Besides the obvious reduction in nightmares, he'd evidently come back to himself. He was warmer, brighter, and more energetic than she'd seen in months. It was a welcome improvement for everyone in 221B. Rosie had somehow detected this fundamental change in her parents' attitudes, as she had also changed her behavior. Now she was much more easy-going, inquisitive, and cooperative. Sherlock would've been proud of her. "I don't know what exactly you two talked about when he was here last week," she concluded, "But he's rebounded beautifully."

"I'm glad to hear it. I must say your husband is incredible, to have gone through so much and still have some positivity left is quite a feat." He had no idea just how much John had endured, Mary thought. Her whole background situation was unexplainable, and it had been a major contributing factor to John's condition.

"Thank you for everything. I can't tell you how much you've helped the both of us," Mary stated.

"You're welcome."

The appointment clearly having reached its end, Mary stood and shook hands with Scott before vacating the room. She couldn't wait to return home to a husband and daughter that would both be happy to see her. Things weren't one hundred percent perfect, and they never would be, but perfection is overrated. Mary wouldn't trade her imperfect, often insane, life for anything in the world.

~0~

While Mary was with Scott, John took Rosie to visit Molly. His daughter absolutely adored her godmother, and that admiration was returned wholeheartedly by the pathologist. However, John had other intentions beyond letting Rosie visit. He had to tell Molly that she was finally off the hook.

"Hello John, hi Rosie," she greeted upon opening the door to let them in.

"Hello Molly," John responded.

"Olly!" Rosie exclaimed excitedly, dashing forwards to wrap her little arms around her godmother's leg. Molly picked her up and carried her inside, followed by John. After a few minutes worth of pleasantries, John broached the topic he'd come here to discuss.

"Mary knows now," he announced without preamble. He didn't take the time to preplan his delivery of that statement for fear he'd psych himself out and be unable to get the words out. Molly appeared confused for a couple moments before deducing what John was talking about. He didn't know if she'd ever been placed in a situation where revealing his secret had crossed her mind, but it was quite possible that Mary had come to her in the midst of her crusade to learn what John was hiding from her. If that was the case, she'd remained loyal to John even in the face of a vengeful Mary—no easy feat. The pathologist possessed a lot more fire and determination than most people gave her credit for.

But she wasn't the best with words. "Oh," was all she managed to stutter in response to John's comment.

"They'd gotten worse on the two-year anniversary, the delusions," John explained. "Moriarty joined Sherlock and they started cajoling me into accepting their help, and I just couldn't take it anymore. Mary found me in the midst of a meltdown and I had to confess. My therapist knows too. I just wanted to let you know that it's not a secret anymore, so you have one less thing to worry about."

"That's great, John," she encouraged. "I'm happy for you. You seem so much better." The last time she'd seen him had probably been at Rosie's first birthday, a time when John's mind was predominantly elsewhere. Looking back on times like those, it was remarkable how far John had come in such a short time. Keeping the illusions a secret had evidently weighed on him far more than he'd wanted to consider.

"Where's Mary?" Molly asked. She was typically the one who brought Rosie to see Molly, mostly because of John's job and his recent mental state. This visit from John, though planned, was atypical.

"She's seeing Scott right now. We both made appointments to discuss what happened two weeks ago and where we think we're going from here."

"How did yours go, if you don't mind me asking."

"It was monumental. I know it sounds cliché, but I can finally see a light at the end of the tunnel. And what a long, dark tunnel it's been."

"I know. I'm so sorry for everything, John. Nobody should have to endure something like that, especially you."

"Don't apologize, Molly. None of this was your fault. And of course it still stings, but I'm trying to focus on the fact that this is exactly how he always wanted to go: getting blown up by some criminal mastermind he brought to justice. He would've much preferred this to eventually growing old and frail."

"You're right. That's a good way to look at it, and I agree it's what he wanted. I'm just glad it wasn't an overdose. There was a fair share of close calls over the years." John remembered vividly watching Molly Hooper slap Sherlock nearly senseless after John found him in that drug den. He wondered if there'd been other occasions like that before he joined the equation. Knowing Sherlock—and knowing Molly—he went with a yes.

"I just wanted to thank you for all that you've done for me and my family. I know you must be struggling too with what happened, yet you always made yourself available to help if we needed it. I'm not sure we would've made it through without you," John confessed. Molly's reliability had been crucial throughout their grieving process.

"You're welcome. You know you can always come to me and I'll be there—unless I'm elbow deep in a corpse at the moment," she chuckled. Many times since he'd known her, John had marveled at the contrast between her personality and her morbid occupation. At first glance, she didn't strike him as the type of person who would elect to deal with dead people every day as a career. But if John had learned one thing in his time with Sherlock it was that one glance was never enough to tell the whole story.

~0~

Three months after the debacle that changed everything, John felt that he was in a good place. After much deliberation between him, Mary, Scott, and others, he'd been put on antidepressants. After everything that had happened on the anniversary, he was certainly better off that before, but not quite up to satisfactory. Medication was offered as the final push to get him where he needed to be, mentally. He'd been reluctant to try them at first, but he couldn't deny that they took the edge off the lingering ache in his soul. When he'd popped the first pill, he'd thought of the bottle of anxiety meds he'd found in Sherlock's room and felt briefly connected to his best friend. He supposed they both needed a bit of pharmacological assistance when their needs justified it.

Neither Sherlock nor Moriarty's apparition had appeared to him since, and he was beyond elated. Without them to distract him, he could focus on important things like Mary and the ever-inquisitive little Rosie. She was growing up so fast, already two and a half, and John regretted that he'd practically missed out on those first two years. He'd been there in person, but his mind had been mostly elsewhere. It had taken a while, but he'd mostly reeled it back in. There were still moments when he'd check his phone and await a message from Sherlock or open the fridge and expect to find the results of some gross experiment, but those were far outshadowed by the moments when he read a book to his daughter or kissed his wife goodbye before leaving for work. It was moments like those he bookmarked and stowed away in his own little version of a mind palace.

~0~

Dear Sherlock,

The last time I wrote to you, my head wasn't quite in the right place. I promise this letter will be much more positive than the previous.

Things are different now. Of course, they've been different ever since you left us, but that was a bad different. This is a good different. A very good different. I finally banished the demons that had been following me since you died. The version of you that my brain dreamt up slowly began to twist until it was clear its presence was detrimental to my mental health. It took the addition of a Moriarty apparition and an intervention by Mary to eventually pull me out of that funk and allow me to move on.

I want to apologize to you for failing to keep your promise for so long. I should have tried harder to respect your wishes, but I was so caught up in my own head that I forgot how important that was to me. You must've been shaking your head at me for two long years just begging me to get my shit together. It'll be a while before I'm really there, but I'm well on my way to honoring my last vow to you.

But of course, even as I find my new place in this world and continue to live, don't think for a second that I will ever stop thinking about you. Your influence is as much a vital part of my character as that of any person I've known in my entire life. There is no part of my soul that remained untouched by your vibrancy and occasional mania, and I bear that proudly wherever I go.

For a while, my entire life revolved around you: following you on cases, documenting said cases, bailing you out of trouble, and buying the goddamn milk you refused to go get. It would seem that without you I would have nothing, just like I did in the short time before we met. But then I started to layer more and more factors: marriage, other friendships, and fatherhood. When you were removed from the precarious stack that was my life, everything I'd piled on top came crashing down. It's taken me until now to rebuild the rubble into a life worth living.

You provided that foundation on which my very existence is constructed, and words alone cannot convey my gratitude for such a thing. I doubt this will be my last letter, but I feel like I'm writing it as though it is. I will continue to do right by the promise I made you to live my life. I have a feeling with a daughter like Rosie and a wife like Mary there will be plenty to keep me on my toes until I, too, eventually meet Death. When that happens, I know you'll be there beckoning me. But until then, I will try my hardest to keep Rosie safe, to keep Mary happy, and to keep myself thriving.

Sincerely, John Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could easily end it there. I considered ending it there. However, there are lots of little moments in time that I wanted to include in the main body of the story but couldn't because they didn't fit with the theme, or the timeline, or whatever. For the most part, they center around Rosie as she grows up. The final three chapters of this story will be an extended epilogue of sorts. You're welcome to cut yourself off here, but I do hope you'll join me and the Watsons as we explore the coming years.


	28. Moments in Time Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now begins the three-chapter epilogue, what I call 'Moments in Time.' The last chapters will be a series of brief stories taking place every few years, mostly focused on Rosie. They aren't strictly necessary to the storyline, but they will definitely help bring things full-circle. Plus, most of them are pretty cute :)

2 Years On:

Rosie starts calling the skull, 'Lock.' The first time she hears it, Mary is both endeared and appalled. It shows important cognitive development, naming her toys and recognizing the skull as something belonging to a human, and she's glad her daughter has reached such a milestone. At the same time, her choice of name frightens Mary. Does she recognize the correlation between the skull and Sherlock: death?

Fortunately, John isn't around to hear her do this, which gives Mary some time to devise a way to break her of this habit. If John heard Rosie calling the skull this, Mary doesn't even want to consider what could transpire. But how can she explain to a toddler why naming her favorite toy after her late godfather is unacceptable? She can't expect her to understand that her parents don't want to hear her call such an object 'Lock' because of its connotations. Eventually, she settles on simply commanding her daughter stop.

"But why?" Rosie asks.

"It's hard for me to explain, but you can't call the skull Sherlock. It's not right."

"Why?"

"Because this skull used to belong to somebody else. It's not Sherlock's, so it can't have his name." Mary comes up with that on the spot, and she hopes it will work.

"Who is it?"

"I don't know. Sherlock got the skull from somewhere, but he never told us where. He said it was a friend of his, but I didn't believe him. I think you should come up with your own name."

"Okay," Rosie agrees. She doesn't tell Mary the name then, but a few days later she hears her call it Casey. She thinks it's probably just a random name that Rosie chose, but a part of her thinks there may be some significance. Rosie had proven to be quite intelligent for her age, and very little she does is without meaning or intent.

"Why did you pick Casey?" Mary inquires.

"You said it's Lock's friend. Daddy always says he loved cases more than anything. So I named it after them," the toddler explains.

"That makes sense. I like that name," Mary tells her, Inside, she's swelling with pride so intense she feels she might burst. Her daughter's compassion and intelligence never cease to amaze her. She inherited only the best traits from John, Mary, and Sherlock.

~0~

5 Years On:

Some time in the beginning of the school year, Rosie and her classmates are asked to draw pictures of their families. They were asked to draw pictures often because they didn't know how to do letters and words yet. Rosie could do her own name, but that was about it, and that was more than most of the other kids could do.

Crayons in hand, she starts with herself before adding Mummy and Daddy on either side of her. She glances over at Annabelle, who's drawing her little brother and her cat in appalling shades of green. Rosie had never seen a green cat before. Rosie looks back at her own paper and find is disappointingly empty compared to others. But she doesn't have any siblings or pets to draw.

She raises her hand and asks the teacher if they're only supposed to do family that lives in the house with them, to which she replies, "You can do as many people as you like. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins." Rosie doesn't have any of those either, not that she knows.

"Godparents?" she asks.

"Of course you can draw your godparents," the teachers says amiably. Rosie smiles and eagerly gets to work. She draws Molly in her lab coat and Nana Hudson. She adds a hoover because Nana Hudson listens to loud, crazy music when she cleans and the image sticks in Rosie's head. Then she adds Mycroft, being a little too generous in how big she makes him. She doesn't mean to, but one can't erase crayon so she can't go back and make him smaller. He isn't one of her godparents, but he acts like family, visiting her parents often and sending her Christmas gifts. Finally, she adds her godfather. She knows exactly what Sherlock looks like even though she can't remember ever seeing him in person. Her Daddy has lots of pictures that he sometimes shows her when he tells the stories.

Rosie loves her father's stories more than anything else in the world. He reads them to her on the nights he puts her to bed, which is why she secretly likes it better when he does it than when Mummy does. He tells her of crazy adventures chasing after criminals, cracking codes, and solving mysteries. Some of the things he tells her sound so fantastical that they couldn't possibly be real, but he assures her they're all true, and she has no reason not to believe him. Her godfather was like a superhero.

Her drawing goes up on the fridge at Baker Street.

~0~

6 Years On:

Rosie announces that she wants to learn to play the violin. She had never mentioned the instrument until this day, so John is more than a little curious where the desire came from. He hasn't seen anyone play the violin since Sherlock, but finds he misses the sound of the instrument pervading the air at Baker Street.

"Why do you want to play violin?" John inquires. Rosie knows that Sherlock played, but John doubts that connection is the reason she made this request.

"Annabelle just started, and she keeps bragging about how good she is," Rosie tells. Annabelle has been her best friend since they started primary school, but John has noticed she does have a tendency to boast. His competitive side really wants to see Rosie put this girl to shame by outplaying her. But Rosie knows one-upping someone isn't a good enough reason to convince her mother, so she adds on to her argument, "And I think it's a very elegant instrument."

"Elegant?" John has never heard such a word from a seven-year-old's mouth. Rosie's really putting on a show. John and Mary tell her that they will discuss it and let her know in a few days, a proposition to which she reluctantly agrees.

Later, they tell a very excited Rosie that her lessons will begin in two weeks. For the first time in years, John hears a violin within the walls of 221B. Of course, it sounds nothing like Sherlock's delicate fingerwork, more like a metal-on-metal shriek, but John knows she'll improve with time.

Most children are diligent about something for all of a week before they lose interest, but not Rosie. She goes out of her way to practice every day without John or Mary needing to remind her, and continues to do so for months on end. John has no doubt she surpassed Annabelle ages ago, but she continues progressing rapidly. When John picks her up from a lesson one time, the instructor tells him she's never had a student so young with such a work ethic.

By the time a year has passed, she's playing pieces that sound like real music. She loves to put on concerts for her parents when she perfects a new piece, and John loves to listen. Coming home from work to the sound of the violin makes him feel a warmth inside that he thought he'd forgotten how to feel. Though it's still too big for her to play easily, John puts Rosie in charge of maintenance and cleaning of Sherlock's violin.

~0~

7 Years On:

When Rosie comes home with a permission slip to sign for a school field trip, John thinks little of it as he scrawls his name across the bottom as instructed. She tells him all about what they're learning in science: marine life and ocean ecosystems. He and Mary listen, of course, because that's what parents do, and share in her enthusiasm for the approaching break from the typical school routine. Every kid loves field trips because it means not having to sit in a classroom all day, and though Rosie loves to learn, she is no different.

Mary offers to chaperone, but Rosie explains that they have enough parents already. She's secretly relieved; monitoring a bunch of eight-year-olds is no easy task. Had Mary gone along on this trip, things might have turned out differently.

The morning passes like any other, except Rosie is markedly more excited to depart for school because of today's trip. Mary and John say goodbye to her and go about their respective days. John works only half a day because the patient load at the surgery is lighter than usual, and he's glad for the extra time alone with his wife. In the early afternoon, the two of them are curled up on the couch together when they get the call.

John answers the phone to hear a somewhat frantic voice on the other end: "Mr. Watson?" John recognizes the voice of Rosie's teacher and he elects to ignore the incorrect title because the woman clearly sounds agitated.

"Speaking," he answers. He himself is growing worried too. Why would the teacher call him in the middle of the day like this? Had something gone wrong? Was Rosie ill?

"I think you need to come pick Rosie up," she says.

"Why? What's wrong?" John feels the panic begin to bubble up inside of him. It must show on his face, because Mary is staring at him concernedly, obviously wondering what the hell is going on.

"She had some sort of meltdown," the teacher explains.

"Meltdown?" John has never seen Rosie do anything that could be called a meltdown. She's a perfectly well-behaved little girl.

"I don't know what happened. We walked into the room, and she froze and started panicking. She's calmed down a bit now, but she won't tell us what happened. She's asking for you."

"Okay. I'll be right over," he tells her and hangs up the phone.

"What's the matter?" Mary asks, the worry evident in her voice.

"Apparently Rosie had some sort of panic attack and she wants me there," John explains.

"Panic attack? She's never had any sort of panic attack before. What could've caused it?"

"I don't know. That's why I'm heading over there pronto."

"I'm coming with you," Mary announces. John doesn't argue, in fact is thankful for the support, and they leave the flat together. It isn't until they start making their way towards the field trip destination that their brains make the connection: London Aquarium.

Neither John nor Mary say this out loud, but they're both wondering the same thing. Could this supposed panic attack have something to do with what happened in that room over seven years ago? Logically, one would think it impossible. But John's mind could come up with no other possible triggers.

When they arrive, John remembers exactly what it was like pulling up outside this door on that fateful night. He'd rushed inside only to find himself too late to do much more than comfort his best friend in his last moments. He takes a deep breath to steel himself and heads toward the front door. Fortunately, he doesn't even have to enter to locate Rosie; she and the teacher are standing against the wall outside. When she catches sight of her parents, Rosie sprints over in tears and wraps her arms forcefully around John. Taken aback by the strength of her embrace, John hugs her in return, feeling her shaking ever so slightly.

"What happened?" he asks again, though he'd already received an answer over the phone.

"She was fine for most of the trip, quite enthusiastic and engaged, actually, but then we moved on to another room and she just stopped," the teacher explains.

"Is this true?" Mary asks Rosie, who still has her face buried in John's shirtfront. She nods her head slowly and continues crying.

"Then what?" John questions, anxious to hear a more detailed account of the incident.

"She came up behind me and told me she had to leave right now. I asked her why, but she refused to tell me. She started breathing heavily and ran out of the room. I chased after her, found her out here, and called you." John considers this information, realizing that his earlier supposition might very well be true. He crouches down so he's face to face with his daughter and asks her why she had to leave the room.

"It just felt…wrong," she sniffles. The tears have finally begun to slow, but she's still visibly upset. John looks at Mary knowingly, and they both understand that somehow Rosie knows what happened in that room without ever being told. Of course, she was well aware of the fate of her godfather, but the location London Aquarium hadn't specifically been mentioned, as it had little bearing on the story. Until now.

"What do you mean, wrong?" John asks.

"I don't know. When we walked in, I just got this funny feeling. Like in a movie when the creepy music starts playing in the background and you know something bad is about to happen," she explains. The teacher is looking more and more confused by the minute. She obviously has no idea about the tragic history of London Aquarium.

"Was it the room with the sharks?" John inquires. Rosie sniffs again, rubs the dampness out of her eyes, and nods.

"Wait—how do you know?" John purses his lips and debates sending the teacher away to have this conversation. At this moment, she's an intruder into a very private family matter. But John also reminds himself that leaving her with no explanation for Rosie's strange behavior might be even worse.

"Something very bad happened in the room with the sharks," he begins. There's no easy way to say the rest of it, but he knows Rosie won't appreciate it if he dances around the point. "Sherlock died there, seven years ago." He can hear the teacher's audible gasp and knows that this incident will be the talk of the staff lounge for weeks to come. It does seem miraculous that a child who knew someone for only the first few months of their life could sense negativity in the room where they'd passed away. It was the type of story that made people believe in ghosts.

"Really?" Rosie's eyes are now shining with curiosity; she's always eager to add new information to her already impressive repertoire.

"Yes," John assures her. "In that very room. It makes sense why you got a bad feeling when you went there."

"Oh Daddy, it was awful! I never want to feel anything like that again!" The tears have started again, and she reburies her head in his shirt. His heart soars with pity for this little girl whose life was so much more complicated than it needed to be.

"You don't have to back inside. Nobody will ever make you go there again. Your mom and I are here to take you home."

"But I'll miss the rest of the trip," she whines. Now John can hear the little bit of goody-two-shoes shining through. Rosie has always hated missing out on anything school related for fear it would be tremendously important later on. But John could not in good moral standing send her back to a place that had made her so uncomfortable.

The teacher speaks up before John can tell Rosie anything, saying, "Don't worry. We finished all the important stuff, and we're going over everything next class." This is enough to reassure Rosie, who agrees to head home with her parents. John and Mary thank the teacher for contacting them before returning home.

"All the other kids are gonna make fun of me," Rosie complains when they've made it back home to Baker Street. "They saw me freak out and rumors are going to spread that I wet myself or something stupid like that."

"Now, I'm sure that won't happen," Mary reassures.

"And if it does, just tell them you discovered you're severely allergic to fish and had to leave."

"But that's not how allergies work. We weren't eating or even touching them, so even if I was allergic I wouldn't have had a reaction." She was absolutely correct, but her knowledge of medicine wasn't the one in question; it was that of potential idiots who would make fun of her for bailing on the trip.

"I know you know that, but I don't think many of your classmates do. They'll easily fall for that excuse."

"Okay, I'm trusting you. But if I get called an idiot on top of a freak, you'll be sorry," she threatens.

"I take full responsibility. Now, how about something to eat?"


	29. Moments in Time Part II

11 Years On:

Mary recognizes the tune Rosie's playing immediately: it's the waltz Sherlock composed and played for their wedding. But where on Earth did she get a hold of it? Mary remembers finding the little envelope left at the front of the room with hers and John's names on it. She'd brought it home and stowed it away somewhere safe. It must've been packed up and brought here when they moved to Baker Street.

She listens to Rosie playing—not as perfectly as Sherlock, but this is likely one of her first times attempting this piece—and her heart soars. Their wedding was one of the last days that had been a happy occasion for all three of them. Although, Mary can't help but think of the notecards she'd found so long ago that Sherlock had kept to remind himself not to toe the line. Maybe he hadn't been as happy as he appeared.

"That was beautiful," Mary tells Rosie as she finishes out. Rosie puts the bow on the stand with a flourish and turns to face her mother.

"Really?"

"Yes. Do you know what that piece was written for?"

"The music says 'Waltz for John and Mary,' so I'm assuming you two?" Rosie answers somewhat sarcastically.

"Yes. Sherlock composed that for our wedding."

"He did?"

"Yes. He played it live at the party and left us the sheet music. That was the same day he told me I was pregnant with you."

"He told you that before you even knew?" Rosie asks dubiously.

Mary chuckles at the memory, "You bet. He deduced it. Who needs a pregnancy test when you've got Sherlock Holmes?"

"How did he know?"

"He saw that I didn't even like the wine I'd chosen—change in taste perception—and that I was hungrier than usual. I'm sure there were other things, but I was so flustered those are the only ones I can remember."

"Dad didn't even notice? He's a doctor!"

"Just between you and me, not a very good one," Mary whispers, and they both laugh far more than they ought to. That night, Rosie plays 'Waltz for John and Mary' for both John and Mary.

12 Years On:

"They're doing what?" Mary asks. Mycroft had called her out of the blue with an announcement she hadn't been expecting.

"Creating a documentary about the life and career of my brother," Mycroft explains. "It's a relatively simple concept."

"I understand the concept, but why? It's been over a decade."

"And a person's fame only increases exponentially after their death; Sherlock is no exception."

"Why are you telling me this now?" she inquires.

"I was informed that they may want interviews with people who knew him, and I didn't want you or John to be caught off guard."

His logic is infallible as always. "Thank you for letting me know," Mary says. "Have they interviewed you?"

"Yes." Mycroft doesn't elaborate further, and Mary doesn't question him. Whatever they asked may have drudged up painful memories. He says a formal goodbye and hangs up, leaving Mary to relay this news to John. She has little idea why Mycroft always elects to go through her when informing them of anything important when he has John's number as well. She suspects there is lingering ice in the relationship between the two men that refuses to thaw with time. Anyways, she doesn't mind being their intermediary.

When she tells John what's going on, he is adamant he wants no part in it. "Absolutely not," he says firmly. "They're going to dramatize everything and blow it out of proportion. Sherlock would not want to be turned into some urban legend."

Mary tries to reason with him, "If you agree to be part of it, maybe you can ensure that they don't do something like that."

"Believe me, I'm very familiar with the media and how they treat people like Sherlock Holmes," John growls scathingly.

"John, these are not muckrakers like Kitty Riley. If there was something fishy or even subpar going on, Mycroft would've shut it down immediately, but he complied. He told me they're genuinely interested in immortalizing him as he really was."

John considers this for a moment, and eventually gives in. Mary smiles and tells him he did the right thing. This would be good for the public, too, she reminds him, as there are some that still haven't gotten over the scandal that led to his fake death.

John complies with the interview, answering all their questions honestly and completely. They thank him for his time and promise that he and Mary will get a preliminary version before the film itself is released. Mary is interviewed as well, but her knowledge pales in comparison to John's. She'll be surprised if her segment even makes the final cut.

Mycroft is the one to give her the disc. Apparently everything she and John ever do is run by him first, the bloody puppeteer. Rosie hadn't been there for their interviews, and is very excited to learn more about her godfather. The three of them sit in front of the television and watch the tape.

Most of it is stuff Mary has already heard from John, except for a bit about his childhood at the beginning. They show snippets of Mycroft speaking, impeccably dressed as always. They go through his early career, although any mention of his struggle with drug addiction is entirely omitted. Though it would've made for good entertainment, Mary knows Mycroft forbade any mention of that particular part of his brother's past. Eventually, they reach the beginning of his relationship with John. Her husband pops up on the screen, and she listens to him detail their first encounter, practically verbatim from the blog.

They alternate between narration and interviews as they go through his most famous cases: the serial suicides-that-weren't-suicides, the Black Lotus drug ring, and the infamous Hound at Baskerville, before getting into the period of his defamation. Although she knows the truth, Mary can't help but admire how convincing an argument Moriarty had fabricated. They have actual footage from the court case where Moriarty had been proclaimed not guilty. Mary hadn't entered their lives at this point in time, but she immediately recognizes Sherlock's snark and flair for the dramatic. Rosie's eyes light up watching her godfather go through the famous deductions she's only heard about.

John cringes and leans in closer to Mary when they go through the fake suicide in great detail. Mycroft had told them everything about how it was done, something John hadn't even known. Mary wonders if he ever felt any sort of curiosity. He's told her no, but she knows a man like John Watson usually isn't satisfied with such a massive unanswered question.

Of course they've told Rosie about this unfortunate part of her godfather's history, but Mary can see her discomfort and beckons her closer. Mary is now sandwiched between her husband and her daughter, both of which are clinging to her. They don't even release when the film moves on to the clearing of his name and his miracle resurrection. There's a clip of someone off-camera asking Mycroft what Sherlock was up to in the time he was away. Mycroft shakes his head solemnly and admits he's not at liberty to disclose that information, only that it certainly wasn't easy work. He hints that Sherlock was… different upon returning and leaves the rest open to interpretation. Ever dramatic, the Holmes boys were, Mary thinks.

There's not much story to tell beyond that, at least not what can be made public. They wouldn't bother to discuss his rocky reunion with John or his attendance of the wedding, for those have little bearing on his career as a detective, which is what this is all about after all. Nor can they discuss the dealings with Charles Augustus Magnussen because of the top secret status, or the case that had ultimately led to his demise. Mary's past was not something that could be discussed in a film that likely thousands of people would see. All they could say was that he'd been killed in a case-related shooting at London Aquarium.

Towards the end, they move into what they call his 'legacy.' Mary knows Sherlock would scoff at the mere suggestion of such a preposterous thing. But the next interviewee to pop up on screen is someone she never would've expected: Philip Anderson. Not only that, but a Philip Anderson who is now a Detective Inspector. John looks at Mary and actually bursts out laughing.

"What's so funny?" Rosie asks.

"Sherlock was not a fan of Anderson's," John explains in between huffs of laughter. "Anderson was not the brightest of people on Lestrade's team, and Sherlock made him well aware of that. I can't believe he actually got a promotion!"

But the best part: Anderson credited his success as a detective to Sherlock Holmes. Mary shushes John and Rosie as Anderson talks about how often they argued and insulted each other. "Honestly, there were days I didn't want to show up to work because I knew I'd be made a fool of," he describes. "None of us ever stood a chance; he'd just think circles around us. When he died," Anderson's tone turns solemn now, "Scotland Yard really suffered. We were swamped, deeming cases cold way before we should have because we didn't have a hope of solving them without him. I don't know exactly how it happened, but I drew on everything I'd ever seen him do and started to look at crime scenes differently. I know I don't see nearly everything he would've seen, and I make sure to follow protocol, but apparently I see enough. Not all the time, but enough. Unfortunately, it took his death to open my mind a bit. I only wish I could thank him," he concludes. John suppresses a chortle, and Mary punches him playfully in the bicep. She knows it's inconceivable for him that Anderson would ever thank Sherlock for anything. He'd been putting on a show for the camerapeople.

"Have you ever considered consulting, as he did?" asks someone behind the camera. Anderson shakes his head and smiles sadly.

"Never. I could never dream to replace him. He always boasted that he invented the job 'consulting detective' and was the only one in the world, and I wouldn't dare to take that title away from him." This elicits even more laughter from John, and Mary is forced to intervene if she has any hope of hearing the rest of the film.

"Stop it John, it's a good thing that he let Sherlock influence his way of thinking," she says.

"Mary, if everyone let Sherlock influence their way of thinking, this world would be in big trouble," he counters. She can't deny that he's right. Sherlock may have been a genius, but she certainly wouldn't want to live in a world full of people just like him. Mycroft was close enough. After the interview with Anderson, they conclude with a summary of everything they already talked about before some cheesy statement about him being the most famous detective in the world for centuries to come.

"Again, again!" Rosie cheers sarcastically.

"No. I don't think I will ever be watching that again," John announces.

"Why not?" Mary inquires. All things considered, it was a pretty good film. They didn't overdramatize like she feared they would.

"I don't need a film to tell me the story of Sherlock Holmes, I lived it."

"Can we keep it for me to watch?" Rosie asks. "That way I can hear the story without having to bother Dad."

"Of course," Mary assures her. "Did you like it?"

"Yes. But Dad does tell the stories better," she admits.

"You're saying I should become a filmmaker?" John says.

"No."

"And why not?"

"Because you're supposed to be Doctor Watson. Nobody would take you seriously as a filmmaker," she remarks.

"I guess you're right, but guess who's not helping you if you have to make a video for homework one day."

"You can help me with science when we get to the human body."

"That I can do, and I'd better not hear that you went to Molly for help instead."

"Never!"

Mary listens raptly as they continue to banter, laughing to herself. She glances to the picture of Sherlock in the deerstalker that sits on the bookshelf—which happens to be the image on the cover of the disc. As much as Sherlock tried to dissociate himself with it, he could never escape the legacy of the hat detective.

~0~

13 Years On:

John picks up his head from the book he's reading the second he hears it. He recognizes the tune from the first few notes, and it brings back memories of a dangerous and confusing time. An almost shrill whine, followed by brief vibrato, at least that's the description his minimal knowledge of music allows him to create. Had Sherlock heard him say that, he would've chastised him for pretending to be knowledgeable about something he wasn't.

John puts the book aside, stands, and follows the sound over to Rosie's room. He walks in unannounced, and her bow halts its passage across the strings as soon as she catches sight of him. She knows she's done something wrong by the look in her father's eyes.

"Where did you find that?" John asks. He doesn't remember storing any of Sherlock's compositions.

"In a folder," Rosie answers, placing the instrument down so she can wring her hands nervously. She doesn't often misbehave, but John is firm with her when she does. This doesn't count as misbehavior, but his long-dormant feelings about this time are awakening and making him lose control of his emotions. This music has almost as much power over John as the Woman did.

"Where did you find the folder?" he continues.

"In the living room. I asked Mum, she said she saved all of his compositions that she could find when you moved in here."

"Why did you decide to play this?" John is trying to keep his emotions in check, but is failing miserably. That song sounds like a heartbroken Sherlock, which is not a version John wants to focus on.

"It was at the front of the stack, so I pulled it out and thought I'd try it," Rosie explains. She looks frightened now, wondering why her father is so freaked out by a few violin notes. "I can stop, if you need me to."

"Please," he instructs. "You're welcome to play anything else in there… just not that piece."

"Why, Dad?" she questions.

"It's complicated."

"That's just what people say when they don't want to talk about something." Rosie is too intelligent for her own good, already able to think circles around her father. But he's used to being outsmarted.

"You're right," he relents. "I don't want to talk about it, because it is so complicated."

"Fair enough," she huffs. She stows the sheet music at the back of the folder and pulls out another one. She starts playing, and John vaguely recognizes the tune. It's one that Sherlock wrote during a particularly long dry spell between cases. Were John to return to the living room, he'd be able to pretend it was his best friend playing instead of his daughter. He didn't have a good enough ear to distinguish between their playing styles.

"Why did you want to pull out his old compositions?" John finally asks. This questions has been at the back of his mind throughout the entire conversation, but he'd been somewhat afraid of the answer.

"I dunno," she shrugs. "I guess it makes me feel closer to him."

"Well…keep doing it," John tells her hesitantly. "Hearing these pieces again is like having a piece of him back, and I can't even begin to explain to you what that means to me."

"Dad, you're getting sappy again." Sappy was to Rosie what 'sentiment' had been to Sherlock. They pretended to hate and misunderstand it, while secretly loving it. It was times like this when John wondered if Sherlock had somehow snuck some of his own DNA into Rosie's genes somehow.


	30. Moments in Time Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God, this is really the last chapter. I can't believe this insane journey is coming to a close. But at the same time, I'm eager to work on some new projects. More on that later... for now, please enjoy the (hopefully satisfying) conclusion to Norbury.

15 Years On:

John can't believe his little girl is sixteen years old already. It seems like just yesterday she was a toddler barely able to walk, and now she's a mere two years away from adulthood. Of course, as her father, John had wanted to do something special for her birthday, but she hadn't asked for anything no matter how many times he or Mary asked. She'd insisted she didn't need to be showered with special attention or gifts. But John wouldn't let that happen. He had a special plan.

On Rosie's birthday, John can barely contain his excitement. He'd considered doing this very thing multiple times in the past, but decided it would be better if he saved it for a particularly special milestone. After dinner, John sits Rosie down in Sherlock's armchair—which had practically become hers at this point, nobody but her ever sat there—and goes to fetch his gift. Technically, it's not a surprise as Rosie's seen it and even interacted with it many times before, but it's never truly been hers.

"Dad, why are you being so secretive? I asked you not to get me anything," Rosie says with mock suspicion.

"I know, but I couldn't help myself," he replies happily. He brings the object into the room, and she can already tell by the shape of the object what it is. John and Mary glance at each other knowingly and John cracks a smile. He's been waiting for this day for a long time now.

Rosie gently opens the latches on the violin case she's opened countless times before. However, she's only ever cleaned and tuned the instrument inside, not played it as her own. For the first several years of her life, her fingers and arms were too small to play on a full-sized violin. That was the only reason she hadn't been given Sherlock's from the start. She'd probably been big enough for a few years, but John and Mary had decided to wait for a special day to make it official.

"Dad, Mum, this is Sherlock's violin. I have my own," she says. She's staring at the instrument inside the case in wonder. She understands fully just how much this meant to her godfather and, in turn, to John.

"Now it's yours," John says.

"Really?" She still can't quite believe it.

"Of course, really."

"But—but—this is Sherlock's."

"And he would want you to have it," John explains. "Your mother and I certainly have no use for it, you're the only one here with even an ounce of musical talent. We just wanted to wait for a special occasion to officially give it to you. Once you took up the violin, there was no question it would eventually be yours."

Rosie leaps up from the chair to embrace her father in a fierce hug, tears of joy trickling down her cheeks. "Th—thank you," she stutters.

"You're welcome," John says. He has little idea where Sherlock originally got the instrument, although he suspects it's mighty expensive given his friend's family background. But he knows nobody will take care of it better than his Rosie. She's been caring for it for years now, but for as long as she'd been doing that she'd never asked if she could play it. Maybe she assumed it would be frowned upon given the sentimental value of the violin that had belonged to her deceased godfather.

John can almost hear Sherlock's voice groaning at him about the stupidity of sentiment and how he should've just gotten rid of it since it served no immediate purpose. He had no way of knowing that Rosie would take up the violin later in life, so his storage of it had been entirely sentimental. But he shushes the voice easily, willing it away. He remembers a time when Sherlock's words in his head had been far more real and shivers at the memory. He's come such a long way since those first two years, and he's never been happier.

Once she's calmed down, Rosie selects one of Sherlock's pieces she's long memorized and plays it on her new violin. It has a slightly richer tone than Rosie's old violin, and sounds even more like Sherlock's playing. Rosie's talent has increased exponentially in the past few years, and she breezes through the piece without a missed note or a tremble. Sherlock would've been proud of her. Almost as proud as John is.

~0~

16 Years On:

"She had a stroke and couldn't be revived," Mycroft tells Mary. She feels immense relief that this woman's life has finally come to an end. If she'd had her way, Mary would've ripped the offending gun from her hands and put a bullet through her brain sixteen years ago.

"Good riddance," she growls and hangs up the phone. At long last, Vivian Norbury suffered the same fate she forced upon Sherlock Holmes. As time passed, thoughts of that murderous woman had appeared less and less often in Mary's mind, but they never fully vanished. She was responsible for the deaths of too many of Mary's friends, an unforgivable crime. Mary hopes she regretted her actions every second that she spent rotting in prison.

When John comes home that day, Mary breaks the news, "Norbury died." No more words are necessary to convey the message. John stares vacantly for a few moments before nodding resolutely. Mary knows that just like her, he's been secretly waiting for this day ever since that night at the aquarium. Alas, second degree murder does not constitute a death penalty, and Mycroft couldn't have changed the law even if he'd wanted to. Mary can see in John's eyes that he hopes it wasn't peaceful. After what she did, that woman deserved worse than spending the remainder of her life in prison.

"How?" John asks.

"Stroke," Mary explains briefly. That's all Mycroft had relayed to her, so that's all she would relay to her husband. He nods again and leaves the room. No more is said. At least, with Norbury's end, some balance had been restored to the world.

~0~

25 Years On:

John walks his daughter down the aisle on one of the happiest days of his life. She'd been dating the same man for two years, and John had been waiting and waiting for her to make the happy announcement. When she finally told them, John had nearly cried with joy. He and Mary had helped with planning (and funding) although they really missed Sherlock's help. He'd done more for their own wedding than either of them liked to consider. Hey, he'd been willing to help and available, so they'd jumped on the chance to shirk some of the hard work.

Still, they'd done a beautiful job. John and Mary sit with Molly and Lestrade. Even Harry shows, despite John's initial doubts. There are smiles and tears of joy all around. Rosie's childhood friend Annabelle is the maid of honor; the two had remained close throughout the years. John can only think of one thing that could possibly make this day even a smidgen better. It's been a quarter of a century, yet he still misses him every single day.

John's eyes barely leave his beautiful daughter throughout the entirety of the ceremony. Thirty years ago, he never would have thought he'd be a father—much less a good one, yet here he was. Rosie meets his eye just before saying 'I do,' and he smiles radiantly. Afterwards, at the party, he remembers his own wedding and receiving the news that Mary was expecting Rosie. It had been a total shock to the system, but a welcome one. He glances at Rosie, searching for any of the same signs that Sherlock had seen in Mary, but finding none. Even if they were there, John wouldn't find them. He'd never been that observant.

A few weeks ago, Rosie had recorded herself playing Sherlock's Waltz for John and Mary. She and her husband now dance to that same tune that John and Mary had all those years ago. John had asked her many times if she'd rather use something else, something she and her husband decided on, but she'd been adamant. This was a piece they'd both agreed on; they'd even taken waltz classes specially so that they could do it justice. As John watches her dance, he thinks there's no way she got her skills from him. They glide across the floor in perfect sync, as if they are one and the same.

When John finally gets a chance to speak to her, he congratulates her on a beautiful ceremony. He confesses he hadn't thought they'd be able to put something together worthy of her, and she blushes, hugging him fiercely.

"I love you," she whispers in his ear.

"I love you too," he says back. "But I must say your beau's best man has nothing on Sherlock. He had the whole room in tears."

"I know Dad, you and Mum are always bragging about that best man speech. Not everyone can be such a wordsmith. And I'm sorry I didn't invite any murderers."

"I even gave you a list of options," John jokes.

"None of them really struck my fancy," she replies.

"Of course," John sighs.

"You're missing him, aren't you? Dad?" How can she always read him like an open book?

"Always, Rosie."

John is getting older now, the first inklings of thoughts of his own demise popping up from time to time. He doesn't want to expedite his inevitable end, but he's reaching the stage where it would no longer be considered a premature death. As things slow down in life, his desire for a reunion in death intensifies. But it would be nice to at least meet his first grandchild.

~0~

27 Years On:

Two years later, John does just that. Rosie had been pretty freaked out throughout the entirety of her pregnancy, calling John almost every other day with questions. He'd told her that he's not an obstetrician, that his area of expertise does not extend to her current situation, but she'd been adamant that his advice was sound and reassuring every time. Though he'd never told her, he'd just sat in front of the computer and Googled whatever she asked him and read off the first link to pop up.

John and Mary make their way to the hospital after getting the call from Rosie's husband. John's hands are shaking with both excitement and nervousness the entire time he spends sitting in the waiting room. Eventually—but not soon enough—they're told that everything went well and led back into a room. Rosie sits there with a tiny, blue bundle of blankets, grinning from ear to ear. She gingerly hands the bundle to John, and he finds himself staring down at a little face that reminds him so much of Rosie's when she first came into this world. John offers a finger and watches in wonder as an impossibly tiny hand wraps around it.

"What's his name?" John asks.

"Jayden," Rosie's husband answers.

"Jayden," John repeats, wondering about their choice of a middle name.

Rosie answers the question he hadn't yet asked aloud: "Jayden Sherlock."

35 Years On:

John goes to bed feeling especially tired. At his age, he's always somewhat drained of energy, but tonight feels somehow… different than most nights. He doesn't think much of it, so he turns out the light, bids Mary goodnight, and rolls over. Within minutes, he's asleep and in the midst of the strangest dream he's ever had. For a long time, he'd been afraid to dream, because his subconscious never had anything pleasant to work with. Over the past years, he had stored away plenty of happy memories to balance out the horrid ones, but those weren't as much fun for his brain to play around with. Though they'd greatly lessened in frequency, the nightmares still plagued him.

Usually, he can tell immediately if a sleep is to be dreamless and peaceful or nightmare-addled, but this one shows none of the typical signs. At first, everything is pitch black. John has been in plenty of dark rooms, but this is a different kind of darkness. Something appears to have literally leeched all the light out and replaced it with ink. The silence around him is thick, as if he's buried up to his ears in invisible sand. But the silence doesn't last forever.

"Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come all the same," a voice echoes. John recognizes it instantly, that rich baritone never receding from his memory despite its recently-developed faults. Suddenly, the darkness vanishes and John finds himself standing in his own living room, though it glows with an odd aura. He turns to find Sherlock Holmes seated in his usual armchair, legs tucked up to his chest and hands steepled.

"No, not you again. I got rid of you decades ago," John warns defensively. There was no way he could relapse now, not when he'd gone thirty years without a hint of a delusion. But then, he takes in the strange atmosphere around him and realizes that something is up. This is no grief-fueled hallucination.

"Figured it out yet?" Sherlock teases, rising to his full height with the signature flourish he'd always used when standing from a chair.

"I—I think so," John mutters. There's only one other explanation for the reappearance of his best friend. John must also be dead. Which means he left Mary and Rosie and Jayden behind. Oh well, he thinks. They'll be fine without him. He'd been awaiting this moment for a while now, feeling it lurking from around the corner and getting ever closer. A small, scientifically-minded part of him wonders what caused his death, but the rest of him doesn't care. His family will find consolation in the fact that it happened peacefully in his sleep. And John himself, he would find consolation in his long-awaited reunion with his best friend.

Without inhibition, he dashes up and wraps Sherlock's long frame in his arms, burying his face in his chest. He shouldn't be crying, but he is because it's been so long since he's been able to physically feel him; the warmth of his skin, the gentleness of his breath on John's head, the strength in his returned embrace.

"I missed you," John murmurs.

"I know. I missed you too," Sherlock replies.

"You weren't—you weren't…haunting me or anything, were you?"

"Define haunting."

"Could you see what was happening? Everything that I did and said?" Sherlock doesn't answer, providing all the response John needs. He definitely bore witness to those first two years, and John cannot imagine what that must've been like, watching passively and knowing there's nothing you can do. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry," he says, holding his friend even tighter.

"It's okay. I should be sorry. I shouldn't have left you like that," Sherlock sighs.

"It's not your fault," John assures. "None of it was your fault."

"I know. But I can still be sorry, can't I?"

"I spent so long teaching you when to apologize, and when you finally do it's unwarranted," John chuckles. He finally feels stable enough to release his friend, and he steps back to take all of Sherlock in. He looks exactly the same as John remembers, from the mop of dark curls to the sharp, angular cheekbones, and even the coat and scarf. John looks down at himself and sees his favorite jumper and a pair of jeans—definitely not what he'd gone to sleep in. He glances at his hands and immediately notices the absence of the loose skin and dark spots that had followed him into his old age.

"Apparently there's a rule here that you appear as you did when you were happiest," Sherlock explains.

"And where exactly is here?" John inquires.

"I've been here quite a while, and I still have no idea."

"Want to try and figure it out together?"

"Are you inviting me on a case, John Watson?"

"Maybe I am, Sherlock Holmes," John counters.

"Could be dangerous…"

"We're already dead, what's the worst that could happen?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we are. This marks the end of what has been one of the most incredible fanfiction journeys I've ever experienced. I don't even know how to begin thanking those that were there every single chapter offering their feedback. If it weren't for you, I'd have no reason to write. As it stands, I have lots and lots of reasons to continue writing, which brings me into my plans for the near future.
> 
> I already have an entire 15-chapter fanfiction 'locked and loaded,' so to speak. It is tightly based on the novel (and movie, which comes out in theaters in about two weeks) called Five Feet Apart, written by Rachael Lippincott. If you've heard of that, you already know what it's about. If not, I'll provide the summary right here: can you love someone you can never touch? I'll begin posting that after the movie is released, in about two weeks or so, likely with a similar posting schedule to this story. So, if that sounds at all interesting feel free to check it out!
> 
> Of course I have a few Fragile Ficlets in the works, but they're all only half-written as of now. I don't have much motivation to write them right now-but for a good reason. I'm working on another full-length story. I'd say I'm about 2/3 of the way to finishing it and it's already 50,000 words. I cannot begin to tell you how excited I am for this story: Sole Mates. I don't want to spoil too much, but I also want to intrigue you, so I've decided I will provide a list of some random quotes from what I've written so far and let you deduce from that what you will.
> 
> "Of the hoofed mammals, there were two primary orders: artiodactyla and perissodactyla, even-toed and odd-toed ungulates."
> 
> "But how would a cat even end up in a woodchipper?"
> 
> "More often than not, he chose the third option: half-crawling, half-dragging himself across the floor on his one good knee like some sort of undead baby."
> 
> "In the most literal sense possible, he already had one foot in the grave, and the one still in the land of the living had just been sidelined."
> 
> Curious? Need to know more? Good. Stay tuned for Sole Mates. And again, thank you so much to everyone who read, left kudos, bookmarked, commented, what have you, on this story. It really has been wonderful.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m sorry. I’d like to say that was the worst of it, but I’d probably be lying.


End file.
